_Shiryàlov_, Why, who do you think would have him? No one but a mad

woman would marry such a rake!

_Antìp._ You think the girls care for that? Bless my soul, that’s

nothing! Why man, young bachelors are always like that. Do you remember

what I was like as a bachelor? I used to drink, and sow my wild oats,

and be up to all sorts of larks. My poor father just gave me up for good

and all. You talk about theatres! We didn’t go to theatres, we used to

be off to the dancing saloons, or to the gipsies at Grouzìna; and go on

spree, drinking, for a fortnight at a time. Why, the factory hands at

Preobrazhènskoye nearly murdered me over a wench; all Moscow knew about

it. None the less I got Matryòna Sàvishna. All that’s stuff and

nonsense; that doesn’t matter.

_Shiryàlov._ Ah! it’s all very well to say, “Marry him, and find a girl

with a dowry.” Why, my dear fellow, now that he hasn’t got any money, he

carries on like mad; but if once he were to get money into his hands,

heaven knows what he’d do—he’d play old Harry with everything.

_Antìp._ He’d set the money in circulation. (_Laughs._)

_Shiryàlov._ No, sir; the thing I think of doing is to put a notice in

the newspapers. Like this you know: “I entrust no commissions to my son;

and have no intention of paying his debts in future.” Then I’ll sign it:

“Manufacturer-Counsellor-Merchant-Temporarily-of-the-First-Moscow-Guild,

Paramòn, son of Ferapònt Shiryàlov.”

_Antìp._ Yes; that’s not a bad idea.

_Shiryàlov._ And another thing I think of doing to punish him, is to get

married myself and cut him out.

_Antìp._ Yes, why not? Marriage is a good thing.

_Shiryàlov._ It’s just possible, you know, that the good Lord will hear

my prayers and send me a son and heir to comfort my old age. I’ll leave

everything to him. The other is like a stranger to me; and my heart

turns away from him. Only think of it; if I were to leave the fortune to

him, what would he do? He’d just squander my money, the sweat of my

brow, among his tailors and his actress wenches!

_Antìp._ Well then, marry; there’s no harm in that. Have you got any

girl in particular in your eye?

_Shiryàlov._ No, friend; that’s just my trouble.

_Antìp._ Would you like me to find you one? Let’s have a drink first of

all. (_They drink._)

_Shiryàlov._ Are you in earnest?

_Antìp._ Quite. Why shouldn’t I find you one?

_Shiryàlov_ (_looks keenly at him_). You’re fooling me!

_Antìp._ What should I fool you for? I haven’t got far to look, man;

I’ve got a marriageable sister.

_Shiryàlov._ What did you say? Eh-h-h!

_Antìp._ Didn’t that occur to you? Well, you are a simple minded fellow!

_Shiryàlov._ My dear lad, of course I thought of it. (_Lowers his

eyes._) But I doubt she wouldn’t care to have me.

_Antìp._ What next. Why shouldn’t she? Never fear, she’ll have you.

_Shiryàlov_ (_drops his eyes lower_). She’ll say: “He’s old.”

_Antìp._ Old? What does that matter? There’s no harm in that. Never

fear, she’ll have you. And then, my mother’s fond of you. Why, what more

can the girl want? A good respectable man: why shouldn’t she have

you?—quiet and peaceable in his cups.... By the bye, you are quiet in

drink, aren’t you? You don’t get fighting?

_Shiryàlov._ As quiet as any innocent babe, Antìp Antìpych. Whenever I

get a drop too much, it just sends me off to sleep; I never get rowdy

and wild.

_Antìp._ You didn’t used to come to blows with your first wife, did you?

_Shiryàlov._ Never, so help me, God!

_Antìp._ Very well then, why should she object to a decent fellow? Never

fear, she’ll have you. You can send the matchmaker. There now, let’s

drink health and happiness to you. (_They drink._)

_Shiryàlov._ Antìp Antìpych, you’re my benefactor, my—I’ll tell you

what: we’ve had a little drink here; come to me and we’ll make a regular

jolly night of it. There’s more room in my place, and there are no

women-folk, and we’ll fetch in the factory hands to give us a song.

_Antìp._ All right. You go on and get everything ready, and I’ll come in

a minute; I’ll just get my cap. (SHIRYÀLOV _goes out_.)

_Antìp_ (_alone, winks_). What a beast it is! And such a sly fox! To see

the doleful ways he puts on. It’s all poor Sènka’s fault. It’s very well

for you to talk, my man, you’ve just got a sweet tooth in your old age.

Well, for my part, I don’t care; it’s all one to me. But I know one

thing, Paramòn Ferapòntych; when it comes to the dowry, who’ll get the

best of who—that’s quite another matter. Mamma and I are not quite so

green as you think. (_Goes out._)

(MATRYÒNA _enters, showily dressed_; DÀRYA _follows her_.)

_Matryòna._ Has Antìp Antìpych gone out?

_Dàrya._ Yes, ma’am.

_Matryòna._ Off on the spree! What a nuisance it is. He’ll disappear for

two or three days now!

(MÀRYA _enters, in her best clothes_.)

_Màrya._ Come along, sister! Do you know how I got leave?

_Matryòna._ How?

_Màrya._ Said I wanted to go to vespers! (_They burst out laughing; and

exeunt._)

[Illustration]

“_LA TRAVIATA._”

(AS DESCRIBED BY A SHOPKEEPER).

BY GORBOUNÒV.

[Illustration]

One day I was out for a spree with my man Jack, that serves in the shop,

you know, and we passed a stone theatre. Jack went up and began reading

the advertisement bill that they’d got stuck up, and says he, “I can’t

understand this; ’tisn’t written plain in our talk.” Well, a gent came

by and Jack says: “Please, mister, what’s written here?” So he read it.

“_Frou-Frou_” says he. “And what does that mean?” “Oh,” says he, “that’s

foreign for any real good thing.” “Really now! thank you kindly, sir....

Mister Policeman, you belong in these parts; perhaps you can tell us

what sort of thing a _frou-frou_ is?” “You’d better go to the

ticket-office,” says he; “they’ll tell you all about it there.” So we

went to the ticket-office and asked for two tickets, right up top, as

high as you can go. “For which performance?” “_Frou-Frou._” “This is the

opera here,” says he. “Oh well, it’s all one to us; give us two tickets;

we don’t mind what you show us. Now Jack! Hurry up!” So we went in and

sat down and these I-talian actor-folk were singin’ away as hard as they

could go. First of all, they were sitting at dinner, eating and drinking

and singin’ about how they was havin’ a jolly time and was quite

satisfied. Then Mrs. Patty poured out a glass of claret and gave it to

Mr. Canzelari, an’ says she: “Have a drink, won’t you?” So he drank it

off and said: “My dear, I’m in love with you!” “You don’t mean it?”

“True.” “Then if so,” says she, “you can go off about your business and

I’ll sit and think over my life, because that’s the right and proper

thing for a woman to do when she thinks of takin’ a sweetheart.” So Mrs.

Patty sat and thought over all her life, and then another man came in.

“Look here, ma’am,” says he, “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your

name, but I’ve come to talk to you about my lad; he’s got himself into

hot water, and now he’s hiding in your house. Just you kick him out.”

“Let’s go into the garden, sir,” said she, “it’s nicer talking in the

open air.” So out they went into the garden, and there she says to him,

says she: “I tell you what I’ll do, sir; I’ll write and give him a piece

of my mind, and I’ll give it him so plain that he won’t come hanging

about me any more, because I don’t hold with wildness and bad ways

myself.” So then we went out into a sort of passage place and had some

apples to cool our throats, for it was that hot that I was just stifled.

When we got back again I says to Jack: “Now, mind you look at it and see

all they do.” “I’m a-lookin’,” says he. “What’s going to come of it

all?” “Why,” says he, “the young man’s come back to her—silly fellah—to

make his apologies and tell her it was none of his doin’, an’ his

guv’nor made the whole think up.” So then she up an’ says to him:

“You’ve not done the genteel thing by me; you’ve put me to the blush

before all these people; but all the same,” says she, “I’m over head and

ears in love with you! An’ there’s my photygraph for a keepsake, an’ I’m

very sorry,” says she, “but it’s time for me to die.”... She just went

on singing for another half-hour, and then she gave up the ghost.

_A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LETTER FROM EMS._

BY GORBOUNÒV.

[Illustration]

Most Orthodox Tzar! Thy faithful slave strikes the earth with his brow

before thy glory! In this present year (377) received I the letter which

Thou didst deign to write to me. In that letter is it written: “Go thou,

oh Ivàn, and journey through the towns of the realm of Germany, and look

upon the folk that dwell therein and write of them to me, thy great

master. And thou shalt take with thee much goods and riches. And when

thou journeyest through the towns of the land of Germany, so shalt thou

neither rob nor steal, nor shalt thou drink of strong drink to be

drunken therewith, but thou shalt speak with the men of Germany; softly

and fair shalt thou speak with them, and shalt give answer in soberness

and truth, and in the fear of my displeasure, that I chastise thee not

in my wrath. And if any man that is a chieftain among the men of Germany

shall ask of thee for what need has thy mighty lord sent thee hither,

thou shalt say unto him: ‘For State matters of great moment.’ And gifts

shalt thou not give unto him. And if any man of Germany shall ask of

thee help, so shalt thou give unto him food that he may eat and coins

that he may have wherewithal to drink, even three pennies unto every

one.”

Therefore, oh Most Orthodox Tzar, by Thy command did I go out from the

borders of the land of Muscovy in the month of May, on the seventeenth

day of the month, even the day of the memory of the holy Saint N.N. And

on my right hand I beheld the wide sea, and ships thereon, and by the

sea standeth the town which is called Königsberg. And in the olden days

that town and land were ruled over by the King of Poland, but now all

these men of Poland are become changed into Germans, and are commanded

to live after the fashion of the Germans, but to believe in the Catholic

faith, even as their fathers before them. Yet if any man of them shall

turn to the Lutheran faith, to that man shall be shown much honour. And

the town of Ems is but a little town, and it standeth in the mountains,

and the water therein is alive, and the water hisseth and bubbleth, and

the water floweth from a stony mountain and many trees grow thereon. And

if any man have a sickness in his entrails, or an evil, or any

unsoundness, then the doctors in their wisdom look upon his sickness and

command him that he drink the hissing waters, and that he sit in them

naked. But the men of the land of Muscovy drink not of the water; they

drink much Rhine-wine and are whole and sound. And the wine of the

Rhineland is good, and every day do I drink to Thee, Most Orthodox Tzar.

And in that town is built a great stone hall, and a German sitteth

therein and turneth a foolish toy like a wheel. And the German is small

of stature and fair. And around the German is a mighty multitude of

people from far-off lands, both Jews and Jesuits, and maidens and

matrons and aged women, and an evil folk of thieves and robbers, and

they lay coins of gold and silver before the German, and the German

gathereth up the coins and turneth his wheel, ceasing not. And in the

doorway is the sound of trumpets and the beating of drums and the

playing of instruments, to tempt the people that they fall away from

righteousness.

[Illustration:

“THEY LAY COINS OF GOLD AND SILVER BEFORE THE GERMAN.”

]

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL MASTER.

[Illustration]

BY N. USPÈNSKY.

An elderly gentleman, sitting on the verandah of his house, called to a

workman who was passing with a water-cart—

“Hi! Prokòfyi! Prokòfyi!”

The cart stopped.

“Are you deaf?”

“The wheels makes such a noise, Grigòryi Naòmich; one can’t hear

anything. They wants greasing.”

“Oh, they’re all right. What have you got there? water?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From the pond?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right,” said the master after a moment’s pause, “you can go.”

A soldier came up to the verandah.

“Wish your honour good-day!”

“Who are you?”

“From Verkhogliàdov in the Merkoùlovsky district; perhaps you know

it?—by the river Kostra....”

“What d’ you want?”

“I’m looking for a place, sir, as doorkeeper, or bailiff.”

“What have you been up till now?”

“Well, when I served in the army, I used to be postillion for the

commander; then, in Mouràvki, I was cook for the examining magistrate.

I’m a Jack-of-all trades, your honour—gardener, whipper-in,

cook—anything you like!”

“Can you break stones?”

“Why, no, your honour, I can’t do that kind of work!”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, the army life breaks a chap down so; I was in a line

regiment, not in the guards, and a man never gets over that.”

“Oh, you’re healthy enough, I can see that, and yet you want to do such

little fiddling work! What sort of career is it to be a bailiff or a

whipper-in?”...

“Surely, your honour, it’s better than stone-breaking!”

“I think stone-breaking a very fine occupation.... H’m.... Have you

recommendations from your former employers?”

“No, your honour.”

“I can’t take you without a character, my good man.”

“Yes, sir, you’re quite right, sir.”

“Perhaps you’re some good-for-nothing fellow—a thief or drunkard for all

I know....”

“Just so, your honour.”

“You must bring me a character.”

“Yes, sir; good-morning, sir.”

The soldier went away. Presently the steward came up to his master and

announced—

“If you please, sir, a strange gentleman came while your honour was

asleep; he calls himself a village schoolmaster.”

“Where is he now?”

“Sitting in the office.”

“Let him in.”

There came on to the verandah a sunburnt man of about forty, in a

nankeen coat and high boots. The master of the house offered him a

chair.

“Who are you?”

“Schoolmaster from the Pobiràkhinsky district, from the village of

Bezzùbov. I humbly venture to trouble you with a request; can I not

obtain some kind of situation?”

“I don’t want a schoolmaster,” said the owner of the house.

“I can take other situations. I have heard that you are looking for a

clerk?”

“Why did you leave your situation in Bezzùbov?”

“The school was destroyed by fire.”

“Long ago?”

“On All Soul’s day. The cause is not known—the whole village was burnt

down.”

“Yes, one is constantly hearing of fires nowadays. A village close to us

has been burnt down too.... Allow me to ask, though, how did you become

a teacher?”

“After completing my education I lived in my brother’s house in the

village of Khmyèlnoye. I did not work, but he supported me. Then I took

a situation as tutor in a country gentleman’s house at Ogoùrtzov, at a

salary of two roubles a month. But I did not stop with him long, and

while there I served chiefly as coachman....”

“But why?”

“Because my pupil did not like studying, and his parents let him have

his own way, and employed me temporarily as coachman....”

“That’s strange!”

“I did the work properly! I had no choice....”

“How much did you get for it?”

“Nothing! only board and lodging, and a cast-off dressing-gown that the

gentleman gave me. In that dressing-gown I went back to my brother, and

he said: ‘What are you hanging about here for, doing nothing? can’t you

set to and learn something, if it’s only singing—you might get to be

choir-master in time.’ So I began to study singing, and then my brother

got tired of hearing me. ‘Confound it all!’ he said, ‘I’m sick of this;

go home to father.’ Well, then I went home. Of course my people abused

me:—‘Always hanging about in the way! We’ve had enough of this!’ What

would you have me do, sir, when I couldn’t get a situation anywhere? I

thought one time of going into a monastery; but just then I got a letter

from my brother, telling me to come to him. I went, and he said, ‘The

prince’s steward wants to start a choir. You must engage yourself as

choir-master.’ I asked him how did he suppose I was to do that when I

don’t know how to sing myself? But all he would say was: ‘Don’t be

afraid! you’ll learn in teaching your class.’ So I took the post. They

gave me a tuning-fork——”

“May I ask,” interrupted the gentleman, “whether you were attired in the

dressing-gown?”...

“No, in my mother’s cloak; the dressing-gown was worn out.... It was a

short cloak, ... home-made....”

“Well, and how did you get on?”

“Very well. There was quite a fair choir. My brother sang tenor; Ivàn

Alexèyich (at the present moment a teacher of patrology and

hermeneutics) bass; then there were a few more volunteers. We got

perfect in ‘Kol Slàven,’[25] and two sort of ... a ... choral

part-songs, ‘Vzỳde’ and’ Polozhìl yesi.’ The steward was quite surprised

at us; he was a critic in musical matters; and he wrote a letter to

Moscow, to the prince, about a salary for the choir-master. Meanwhile we

began to practice: ‘Kto Bog?’ and ‘Kheruvìmskaya Razòrennaya’[26]....

All of a sudden the prince wrote back, ‘I don’t want a choir; I am going

away for my health.’...

“So after that I got appointed at the village school at Bezzùbov. The

people there are very poor; many of the peasants used to sleep in their

ovens in winter-time. One day the priest came into a cottage to bless

the household; he looked round, and there was no one there, so he began

to sing the _tropar_.[27] Suddenly the people crawled out from the oven

and came up to kiss the crucifix.... A good many of my pupils went about

begging. For all that, though, a great gentleman from St. Petersburg

passed through our village, and he said the people were not averse to

education—really.”

“Do you mean that ironically?” asked the master of the house.

“Oh dear no!”

“Of course, even a poor man may desire education; just take the case of

Lomonòsov: he was a peasant and became an academician.”

“Exactly so.”

“Well, what else did the great gentleman from St. Petersburg remark?”

“He said that it would be a good thing for our administration to

introduce a uniform for the scholars.”

“A capital idea!” exclaimed the master of the house; “there ought to be

discipline in a school. Without discipline no institution can exist.

H’m.... What subjects were taught in your school?”

“We used the New Testament in the Russian and Slavonic tongues, a

hundred and four selections from the Old and New Testaments, the

‘Elements of Christian Doctrine,’ ‘Examples of Piety,’ and the Breviary,

for the children to learn by heart; the first hour’s division[28] of the

Thirty-third Psalm, and the Book of Six Psalms, with ‘All that has

breath.’”...

“Is that all?”

“No, we had a library, containing the following books:

“Selected Passages from Schreck’s ‘Universal History.’”

“The Programme for Acceptance into the Military Service.”

“Food for the Mind and Heart.”

The Psalter, without red lettering.

The Breviary, with red lettering.

A work of Glinka, entitled, “Hurrah.”

“The Life of St. Prokopius the Natural.”

“Reader for the People.”

“Domestic Conversations.”

“The Clever Reader.”

And a few others.”

“The books are good,” remarked the gentleman; “I’ll order ‘Domestic

Conversation’ and the ‘Clever Reader’ myself. How long did you retain

your post?”

“Eight years. I received no rise in my salary for the whole time. One

day the inspector came, and he asked me, ‘How long have you been

teaching here?’ ‘Eight years,’ said I. ‘Has your salary been raised?’

‘No,’ said I; ‘I receive the minimum salary.’ ‘Why is that?’ ‘I don’t

know.’ Then he turned to the chief of the district and said, ‘The

teacher is to receive a rise in his salary.’ The inspector observed,

too, that the school-house garden was neglected, and ordered it to be

put to rights, saying, ‘that it would then have a favourable moral

influence on the minds of the scholars, who would, in time, become

agriculturists.’”

“I agree with him. The bad tendencies must be restrained in these people

from the very tenderest years.”

“The inspector ordered flowers to be planted in the garden——”

“H’m, in my opinion that is superfluous. He should have had birch trees

planted; that would have influenced the pupils more favourably.”

“There were birch trees already——”

“Ah! Birch trees are as valuable as the ‘Clever Reader’ and ‘Domestic

Conversations.’ Are you married?”

[Illustration:

“I SHOULD HAVE LIKED TO MARRY.”

]

“I should have liked to marry, but I was afraid to. The parish clerk of

Ogoùrtzov offered me his sister-in-law in marriage. I knew her—she was a

first-rate girl. I went to see her.”

“Was she clever?”

“A-a! Really, sir, I don’t know whether she was clever or not.”

“But you talked with her?”

“Oh yes, of course! I said, ‘We are acquaintances, Olga Mìtrevna.’”

“Oh yes,” she said, “I am quite aware of that.”

“I have been brought here,” said I, “to ask you in marriage.”

“Indeed!” said she.

“Do you know where I have seen you? At a christening at Ogoùrtzov,” said

I, and she answered—

“Yes, I remember. And you are from Khmièlnoye?”

“Yes,” said I.

“Ah! the scenery is pretty round there.”

“And that was about all her cleverness!... Her father kept on begging me

to marry quickly, because a man can’t live properly without some one to

keep his house. ‘We shall get on much better together,’ she used to

say.... So we stayed up till dawn, singing and dancing.”

“Sacred songs?”

“No, sir, various—sacred and secular.”

“Well, and did your betrothed sing?”

“No; afterwards, when I left her—she sang that romance—you know—

‘’Twas my fault for thus betraying

All too soon my love to thee;

Now thou hast beheld my weakness,

Ah! thou hast forsaken me.’”

“That’s to say, you jilted her?”

“I don’t know—anyway, I hadn’t anything to keep her on.”

“H’m—so you say the school burned down?”

“To the ground.”

“And are all the books and things burnt too?”

“No; they were saved. The fire was in the day-time, and our people had

time to get the books out.”

“That’s good. So I suppose it will soon be built again, and you can go

on being teacher?”

“I don’t wish to take that work.”

“Why not?”

“I’m sick of it! You wouldn’t believe me, I’ve often thought of putting

an end to myself.”

“So you prefer to be a clerk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m’m—I am sorry that I can’t help you; it’s true that I’ve just

dismissed my clerk, but I don’t want another. You see, in these times

one must look after everything oneself. I do all my accounts myself.

Now, I have a vacancy for a bailiff, but you wouldn’t care for that ...

the salary is so small ... three roubles a month.”

“That is very little,” said the teacher.

“There you see! and I don’t want a clerk. Besides, I can’t understand

why you don’t wish to be a teacher.”

“I can’t stand it, indeed I can’t!”

“It’s true that the root of learning is bitter, but, you see, the fruits

are sweet.... No, I would advise you to disseminate instruction among

the people.... At the present time, when education has become a positive

necessity, we ought all of us to assist in the work, to the limit of our

powers. For my part, I am quite willing to do what I can. I will make a

donation of books to your school. Here! Aliòshka! Fetch the hamper that

stands under the ante-room sofa.”

The footman brought in a hamper of books, gnawed all over by rats.

[Illustration:

“THE FORMER TEACHER, IT IS SAID, HAD HANGED HIMSELF.”

]

“Now,” said the gentleman, “here’s a book for you; ‘Nature’s Vengeance,’

a capital book; I’ve forgotten what it’s about. Ah! and here ... ‘The

Oath, taken at the Holy Sepulchre.’... In fact, you can have the whole

lot. When your new school is built, kindly range all these works in your

library with an inscription: ‘Presented by Mr. Yàkov Antònovich

Svinooùkhov,[29] the squire of Prokhòrovka.’ Posterity will remember

me.... I am very glad that fortune brought you here, otherwise my books

would have lain by uselessly, but now they will do good; and not to one

generation only, but to future ages.... Hi! Aliòshka. Tell the man to

harness a horse and conduct these books and the schoolmaster with them

to the village of Bezzùbov.”

* * * * *

Two months later the new school was built. The educational library had

been enriched by the following works, the gift of Mr. Svinooùkhov:—

“The Correspondence of the Nobility of Hell.”

“Hunting with the Hounds.”

“The Russian Theatre.”

“Nature’s Vengeance.”

“The Works of Bulgarin.”

“Political and Moral Fables.”

“_The Moscow Gazette._”

“A New Latin Alphabet.”

“Words to Scholars, Concerning the Attributes of True Wisdom.”

“A Guide to Didactics.”

“A Short Dissertation upon the Rules of True Wisdom.”

&c., &c.

Nothing was wanting, except a teacher. The former teacher, it is said,

had hanged himself.

_THE RECOLLECTIONS OF ONÉSIME CHENAPAN._

“Une triste histoire. Souvenirs d’un voyage dans les steppes du Nord,”

par Onésime Chenapan, ancien agent provocateur, ayant servi sous les

ordres de Monseigneur Maupas, Préfet de Police, 1853. Paris: Librairie

nouvelle, 1 vol.

_From “Opinions of distinguished foreigners concerning

Pompadours,”_—(_Appendix to “Pompadours and Pompadouresses.”_)

BY “SHCHEDRÌN” (SALTYKÒV).

I take up my pen to show how one rash step may ruin a man’s whole life,

destroy all the fruits gained at the cost of long-continued humiliation,

and turn to dust all hopes of further advancement in his special

career—nay, it may even rob from a man his dearest earthly right—the

right to be called a faithful son of the holy Roman Church!

All this was brought upon me by a worthless being who called himself a

Pompadour; he did it simply, calmly, without an instant’s hesitation,

leaving me without even the faintest hope of obtaining any recompense

whatsoever for all the losses he caused me!

Oh, young man! Thou who readest these tear-stained pages, consider them

and ponder deeply. And if ever, in the Closerie de Lilas, or any other

such place, thou meetest with a man called a Pompadour, flee from him!

For the name of that man is frivolity and hardness of heart!

* * * * *

In the year 1852, not long after the famous _coup d’état_ of December,

chance brought me together with the Prince de la Klioukwà, a man still

young although a little _tarè_, a man whom I, seeing only his personal

appearance and cheerful manners, should never have guessed to be a high

official. It appeared, however, that such he was.

We met in one of the Parisian _cafés chantans_ which I frequented in the

exercise of my professional duties, as these agreeable places were the

favourite resorts of those mistaken young people who failed to show due

unconditional confidence in the changes of December 2nd. Here also were

to be found many foreigners, acquainting themselves with Paris from the

point of view of the _dolce far niente_.

Our conversation began _à propos_ of the song, “Ah! j’ai un pied qui

r’mue,” which at that time had just come into fashion, and was

charmingly sung by Mdlle. Rivière. It appeared that my neighbour (we

were sitting at the same table, in leisurely enjoyment of our _petits

verres_) was not only a fine connoisseur of _genre_, but himself

performed admirably the principal pieces of the _Cascade_ repertoire. I

cannot explain how it was, but, to my sorrow, I experienced a kind of

blind, unreasoning attraction towards this man, and, after not more than

a quarter of an hour’s conversation, I frankly acknowledged to him that

I was an _agent provocateur_, honoured by the peculiar confidence of

Monseigneur Maupas. To my astonishment, he not only did not start up to

strike me (as mistaken young people almost invariably do), but he even

held out both his hands to me, and, in his turn, informed me that he was

a Russian, occupying in his native land the rank of Pompadour.

[Illustration:

“WE MET IN ONE OF THE PARISIAN _CAFÉS CHANTANS_.”

]

“I will explain to you afterwards,” said he, observing the perplexity

expressed in my face, “what constitute the attributes and jurisdiction

of a Pompadour’s office; at present I will only say that no other

meeting could cause me such pleasure as this meeting with you. I was

just seeking to make the acquaintance of a good, thoroughly reliable

_agent provocateur_. Tell me, is your business a profitable one?”

“Monseigneur,” I replied, “I receive a regular salary of 1,500 francs a

year, and, besides that, as encouragement, extra pay for every

denunciation.”

“Why ... that’s not bad!”

“If I were paid by the line, though only at the rate of the newspaper

penny-a-liners, it would really be not bad; but the thing is,

monseigneur, that I am paid by the job.”

“But, no doubt, at Christmas or Easter there are some little

perquisites?”

“No, monseigneur. All the perquisites go to Monseigneur Maupas, and his

most gracious Majesty the Emperor Napoleon III. The only addition to the

salary I told you of consists in a special sum, reserved for cases of

mutilation and fatal injuries, which are very common occurrences in my

profession. On the 2nd of December I literally presented the appearance

of a mass of flesh streaming with blood, so that in one day I earned

more than a thousand francs!”

“A thousand francs ... _mais c’est très joli_!”

“But I have an aged mother, monseigneur! I have a maiden sister, whom I

do my utmost to settle in life!”

“Oh! _quant à cela_ ... the deuce take them!”

This exclamation was very noteworthy, and should have served as a

warning to me. But it pleased Providence to darken my reason, doubtless

in order that I might drain to the very dregs the chalice of bitterness

which this terrible man was to bring to me.

“Well, and now tell me, has it ever happened to you—in the exercise of

your functions, _s’entend_—to open other people’s letters?” he

continued, after a momentary silence, which followed his exclamation.

“Very often, _excellence_!”

“Understand my idea. Formerly, when letters were fastened down merely

with sealing-wax, when envelopes were not gummed at the edges, it was

quite simple, of course. All that was necessary was to insert a thin

wooden needle, roll the letter upon it and draw it out of the envelope.

But now that the envelope presents an unbroken, impenetrable surface,

what is one to do? I have repeatedly tried the use of saliva, but I

confess that my efforts have never once been crowned with success. The

persons who received the letters have always observed it and made

complaints.”

“And yet nothing is simpler, _excellence_. Here, in such cases, we take

the following course: we approach the letter to boiling water and hold

in the steam that side of the envelope on which are the gummed edges,

until the gum melts. Then we open it, take out the letter, read it, and

replace it in the envelope; and there remain no signs of indiscretion.”

“So simple—and I never knew! Yes, the French are in advance of us in all

respects! Oh, generous nation! How sad that revolutions so often disturb

thee! Et moi, qui, à mes risques et périls, me consumais à dépenser ma

salive! Quelle dérision!”[30]

“But does the opening of other people’s letters appertain to your ...

attributes, monseigneur?”

“Everything connected with internal policy appertains to my duties,

especially the opening of private letters and the exaction of

_nedoimki_.[31]

“Do you know, my new friend, that you have helped me out of a very great

difficulty?”

He pressed my hand warmly, and was so generous as to invite me to supper

with him at the Café Anglais, where we passed the time in the most

agreeable manner till almost morning. Finally, he very amiably proposed

that I should accompany him to his native Steppes, where, according to

him, a highly advantageous career was open to me.

“You will travel with me, and at my expense,” said he; “your salary will

amount to four hundred francs a month; besides that, you will live with

me and receive free board, light, and fuel. Your duties will be as

follows: to teach me all the secrets of your profession and to find out

all that is said about me in the town. And, in order to attain my

purpose more easily, you will frequent society and the clubs, and there

abuse me right and left.”

I was bewildered and delighted. Oh, ma pauvre mère! Oh, ma soeur, dont

la jeunesse se consume dans la vaine attente d’un mari!...[32]

Yet, notwithstanding my agitation, I observed a certain inconsistency in

his proposition, and instantly remarked it to him.

“Permit me to make one respectful comment, monseigneur,” said I. “You

were so kind as to say that I should live in your house, yet at the same

time you desire me to malign you. Although I fully understand that the

latter measure may be one of utility (for ascertaining the direction of

public opinion), still, would it not be better if I were to live, not in

your house, but in a separate lodging—just in the character of a

distinguished foreigner living on his income?”

“That’s of no consequence,” he replied, with a fascinating smile.

“Please do not disturb yourself about that. In our Steppes it is a

customary thing to foul your own nest; when you eat a man’s bread,

you’re supposed to abuse him.”...

I decided.

Parting with thee, oh, my beloved France, I felt that my heart was torn

in pieces!

Oh, ma mère!

Oh, ma pauvre sœur chérie!

But I said to myself, “Oh, ma belle France! If only the Steppes do not

swallow me up, I will scrape together a small capital, and will set up

in Paris a matrimonial and divorce agency. Then shall nothing ever

separate us more, oh, beloved—oh, incomparable native land!”

Looking forward to that longed-for moment, I decided to give up all my

salary to my poor mother. For myself, I intended to live on casual

gains, of which, by the exercise on my part of a certain amount of skill

and inventive capacity, there would certainly be no lack.

On the journey the prince was exceedingly obliging. He always permitted

me to sit at the same table with him, and gave me good food. Several

times he attempted to explain to me in detail in what consist the

“attributes of a Pompadour”; but I must confess that these explanations

produced on me no other effect than complete bewilderment. This

bewilderment was still further increased by the fact that during these

explanations his face wore so ambiguous an expression that I never was

able to make out whether he was speaking seriously or romancing.

“The Pompadourical profession,” said he, “is almost a superfluous one,

but just that very superfluity is what gives to it the _piquante_

significance which it has in our country. It is unnecessary, and yet it

is ... you understand me?”

“Not quite, monseigneur.”

“I will try to express myself more clearly. A Pompadour has no special

business; it would be better to say _no_ business,” he added, correcting

himself. “He produces nothing, manages nothing directly, and decides

nothing. But he has internal policy and time to spare. The former gives

him the right to interfere in the affairs of others; the latter enables

him to vary that right without limit. I hope that now you understand

me?”

“Pardon me, _excellence_, but I am so imperfectly initiated into the

wire-pulling of the policy of the Steppes that there is much which I

cannot comprehend. Thus, for instance, why do you _interfere_ in other

people’s affairs? Surely all those ‘others’ are servants of the same

bureaucratic principle of which you are a representative. For, in so far

as I understand, the constitution of the Steppes——”

“First of all, we have no constitution whatever. Our Steppes are free—as

Steppes should be—or as the hurricane that sweeps across them from end

to end. Who shall control the hurricane? I ask you, What constitution

can attain to it?”

He interrupted me so sternly that I became somewhat embarrassed and felt

it necessary to apologise.

“I expressed myself badly, monseigneur,” said I; “I used the word

‘constitution’ in quite another sense from the one you were pleased to

give to it. According to the opinion of scientific men, any state, when

once _constituted_, by that very fact declares itself to have a

_constitution_. It is a matter admitting of no doubt that there may be

constitutions which are pernicious, and others again which are useful——”

“All that is very fine, but I beg of you not to employ in our

conversations the hateful word ‘constitution’—never! Entendez vous:

jamais! Et maintenant que vous êtes averti, continuons.”

I therefore explained that I could not understand of what use the

interference of one set of bureaucrats in the affairs of another set

could possibly be. I was just going to add: “Possibly you share? In that

case ... I understand. Oh, comme je comprends cela, monseigneur!” But,

not being, as yet, _quite_ intimate with my illustrious friend, I

refrained from that remark. Apparently, however, he guessed my secret

thought, for he grew as red as a boiled lobster, and exclaimed, in an

agitated voice—

“I protest with all my soul! Do you hear—I protest!”

“But, in that case, I really do not understand what is the purpose of

this constant interference.”

“You are stupid, Chenapan!” (Yes, he said that to me, although at that

time he was still very polite to me.) “You don’t understand that the

more interference there is on my part, the more right I attain to the

notice of the higher authorities. If I put down one revolution a year,

that is well; but if I put down two in a year, that is excellent! And

you, who are in the service of the greatest of suppressors of

revolutions—you cannot understand that!”

“I understand—I understand that very well, monseigneur. But I confess I

had supposed that the condition of your country——”

“All countries are in the same condition for a man who desires to

attract to himself the attention of the authorities—_vous m’entendez_!

But that is not all! I have my personal _amour-propre_.... _Sacrebleu!_

I have my internal policy; I have my prerogatives! I wish to introduce

my view—_sapristi!_ I wish that people should act in harmony with my

views, not in contradiction to them. It is my right; if you like to put

it so, it is my caprice. You lay a responsibility on me; you demand of

me this and that ... allow me, too, to have my caprice. I hope that this

does not amount to any monstrous pretentiousness on my part?”

“But the law, monseigneur? How can you reconcile caprices with the law?”

“La loi! Parlez moi de ça! nous en avons quinze volumes, mon cher!”[33]

Here our conversation broke off. Although the administrative theory

expressed in the last exclamation of my interlocutor was quite new to

me, still I acknowledge frankly that the coolness with which he spoke of

the law pleased me. Monseigneur Maupas had often said to me, “In case of

need, _mon cher_, even the law can alter,” but he said it softly, as if

afraid that any one should hear. And now suddenly—this clearness, this

daring, this _élan_—how could one fail to be charmed by them! The

Cossacks are a bold race altogether, and inclined to see enemies where

we, people of an older civilisation, see only protection and surety.

These people are absolutely fresh, and are free from all those

prejudices which burden the life of a Western. They look upon the

so-called “moral duties” with the most easy-going cheerfulness, but, on

the other hand, no one can compare with them in matters of physical

exertion; and as for their activity at table, with the bottle, with

women—there they are undoubtedly the first warriors in the whole world.

I, for instance, have never once seen my amphytrion drunk, although the

quantity of liquor consumed by him before my eyes is, indeed, hardly

credible. Never once did he lay down his arms before the enemy, and all

the effect that wine ever produced on him consisted in a change of

colour and a certain extra animation in romancing.

[Illustration:

“I CANNOT REMEMBER HOW THE CEREMONY WAS PERFORMED.”

]

I am none the less bound to acknowledge that the significance of

Pompadours in Russian society continued to appear to me wanting in

clearness. I could not conceive that there could exist anywhere an

administrative caste, the duties of which should consist in _hindering_

(I consider the word “intervene” too serious for such an occupation),

and which, when reminded of the law, could answer, “’Pristi! nous en

avons quinze volumes!” For the rest, I ascribed my doubts, not to my own

want of comprehension, but rather to the prince’s incapacity to

formulate his thought clearly. It was evident that he himself did not

understand in what his administrative _rôle_ consists; and this is quite

comprehensible if we remember that in Russia up to the present time[34]

the corps of cadets are regarded as the nurseries of the administration.

In these institutions the pupils are put through a detailed course of

study in only one science, which bears the name of “_Zwon popêta

razdawaiss_”[35] (the prince was in an exceedingly merry humour when he

told me this long name, and I am convinced that in no other European

country is there a science with such a name); the other sciences,

without which it is impossible to get on in any human society, are

passed over more than superficially. It is, therefore, not in the least

surprising that persons who have received such an education prove

incapable of expressing their thoughts coherently and consequentially,

but get along how they can with such senseless exclamations as

“Sapristi!” “Ventre de biche!” “Parlez moi de ça!” and so on.

Only when the inhospitable Steppe received us in its stern embrace, that

is to say, when we arrived at our destination, did I even to some extent

realise what my exalted amphytrion meant by his prerogatives.

Until we entered the confines of that tract of country over which the

Prince de la Klioukwà’s Pompadourical sway extended, his conduct was in

some degree moderate. He beat the drivers with a leniency of which I can

only speak with the greatest admiration (as for his behaviour when

abroad, of that I need not speak—it was the very pink of courtesy). But

no sooner did he see the boundary-post which marks the beginning of his

jurisdiction, than he drew his sword from its scabbard, made the sign of

the cross, and, turning to the driver, uttered a cry of gloomy

significance. We flew along like an arrow from the bow, and the

remaining fifteen versts to the posting station were taken at a gallop.

He, however, considered that we were not going fast enough, for every

five minutes he would encourage the driver with violent blows of his

sword.

I was unable to understand the cause of his anger, but I have never seen

any human being so enraged. I confess that I was very much afraid the

axle-tree of our carriage would break, as, if that had happened, we

should inevitably have perished. But to persuade him not to hurry the

driver was impossible, for furious driving along the roads is one of

those prerogatives to which the Pompadours most passionately cling.

“I’ll teach him how to drive—_canaille_!” he repeated, addressing me,

and appearing to enjoy the terror depicted on my countenance.

And indeed we travelled more than two hundred versts in twelve hours,

and yet, notwithstanding this unheard of speed, at the stations he used

to order the drivers to be flogged, remarking to me:

“C’est notre manière de leur donner le pourboire!”[36]

On arriving at the principal town we stopped at a large state building,

in which we were absolutely lost, as in a desert. (The Prince had no

family.) It was early morning, and I was dying for want of sleep; but he

insisted on having the official reception at once, and despatched

couriers in all directions with the news of his arrival. Two hours later

the state-rooms of the house were filled with trembling officials.

Although prerogatives play an important part in our fair France, yet I

could never have conceived of anything like what I saw here.

Among us such words as “scoundrel” (“vaurien,” “polisson”

and—unfortunately—“Chenapan”) constitute the severest reprimand which a

guilty official can possibly deserve from an angry superior. Here, on

the contrary, independently of plenteously-scattered personal insults,

it is customary to add emphatic remarks concerning the genealogy of the

person abused.

The prince was as scarlet as a boiled lobster, and hurried on from one

subordinate to another, pouring out deluges of virulent abuse. He was

especially hard upon a certain lame major, whom he ironically introduced

to me with the remark, “This is my Maupas.” I at first imagined that

this unhappy man must have attempted to usurp the prince’s power during

his absence (which, of course, would have justified his wrath), but it

appeared that nothing of the kind had happened. Up to this day I cannot

explain to myself what was the cause of those grievous scenes which I

witnessed on that memorable morning. The prince explained them to me as

resulting from a desire to defend his prerogatives, but that reason

appeared to me insufficient, as no one, apparently, had infringed those

prerogatives. In a word, the official reception ended in a complete

victory for my exalted amphytrion, who paced about the rooms, bridling

like a spirited horse and proudly rejoicing in his easily-won triumph.

It was only at dinner that I began to feel at ease. It went off rather

pleasantly, for there were present several favourites of the prince,

young men, evidently very well educated. One of them, who had lately

returned from St. Petersburg, very cleverly mimicked Mdlle. Paget,[37]

at her _soirées intimes_, singing, “Un soir à la barrière.” This song,

though far from new, and almost gone from my memory, gave me the

greatest pleasure.

That evening the prince introduced me to the lady of his affections,

whom he had taken away a short time before from one of the local

municipal counsellors.[38] This most charming woman produced on me a

profound impression, which was still further strengthened when I felt

under the table the pressure of her foot against mine. Her husband was

present, and greatly amused us by his jests at the expense of betrayed

husbands, from which category the simple-hearted man did not exclude

himself. Some of these jests, under the mask of _naïveté_, were so

biting that the Pompadour reddened and lost his temper; but his

morganatic friend, apparently, was accustomed to such scenes, for she

looked on as if she had been an unconcerned outsider.

Our merry supper was drawing to a close, when suddenly some one came

running in to announce that a fire had broken out at the end of the

town.

“That is capital!” said the Pompadour to me. “Vous allez me voir à

l’œuvre!”[39]

But I, for my part, was far from glad, for I observed that the prince,

for the first time in our acquaintance, was quite drunk. Whether the

proximity of the object of his affections acted on him as a stimulant,

or whether it was the direct result of the intoxication of power—be that

as it may, he could hardly keep on his feet. It turned out, however,

that even this was to his advantage. As a general rule, no fire ever

occurred without his beating somebody, but on this occasion he slept

through the whole affair, and only woke up when the flames were fully

extinguished.

As we returned home he startled me so distressingly that my heart seemed

to contract as under the influence of some dark presentiment.

“Well, Monsieur Chenapan” (he did not even conceal the insulting double

meaning that he put into my name), “how do you (_tu_) like my place?”

asked he.

However deeply I was wounded by this deliberate jest, and by his

unceremonious “thou,” addressed to a man who was no subordinate of his,

I nevertheless felt it wise to submit.

“I am more than enchanted, monseigneur,” said I.

“H’m!... I should just like to see you not enchanted, you hound!”

As he said that he laughed so strangely that I suddenly understood—I was

not a guest, but a captive!

Oh, ma France bien aimée! Oh, ma mère!

* * * * *

The prince very soon learned from me all the secrets of the craft, but,

as he became more sure and confident in them, I fell lower and lower in

his estimate. The first two months he paid my salary punctually, but the

third month he told me right out that the whole of me was not worth two

sous. When I tried to move him with entreaties, referring to my aged

mother and my maiden sister, whose only treasure on earth is her virtue,

he not only refused to hear the voice of generosity, but even permitted

himself certain ambiguities concerning the virtue of my poor dear

sister.

[Illustration:

“STROLLING ABOUT THE BOULEVARDS.”

]

While waiting till God should soften his heart, I was forced to be

content with receiving my board and lodging. Yet even this much cost me

bitter insults. They took away my former bed and replaced it by a thing

for which in our sweet language there is no name. At table they

constantly mocked and jeered at me, and took to habitually calling me

“rascal.” Unhappily, I was so imprudent as to let out on one occasion

that I had sometimes been beaten in Paris when fulfilling my duties, and

by this needless frankness I, as it were, laid myself open to the most

monstrous and outrageous jests, in which these people (who have no

inventive capacity of their own) indulged at my expense. Moreover, at

every meal they would purposely leave me without some particular dish

(as a general rule, with a refinement of cruelty, they would choose

whichever dish I liked best); and when I complained of hunger they would

unceremoniously send me into the servants’ hall. But what hurt me most

of all was the fact that they insulted in my presence my most gracious

sovereign and emperor, Napoleon III., and in his person my dear,

beautiful France. Thus, for instance, they would ask me was it true that

Napoleon (they purposely pronounced his name _Napoleòschka_—a

contemptuous diminutive) sold geese in London? or was it true that he

and Morny together had kept a house of tolerance in New York? etc....

And all this frivolous jesting at the moment when the terrible Eastern

Question stood before us!...

So it went on until autumn. The cold weather began, but they neither put

double windows into my room nor heated it. I was never of a rebellious

temperament, but at the first cruel grasp of cold, even _my_

self-abnegation broke down. Only then did I become fully convinced that

the hope that God would touch the heart of my exalted amphytrion was a

hope in the last degree illusory and vain. Gathering up my courage, I

decided to brave the inhospitable Steppes and appealed to the prince to

grant me the necessary sum to reach the banks of the Seine.

“I no longer demand the payment of what is due to me, monseigneur,” said

I; “the payment of what I have earned, far away from my beloved country,

while subsisting on the bitter bread of exile....”

“You’re wise not to demand it—Chenapan!” he remarked, coldly.

“I beg for only one favour. Give me a sufficient sum to enable me to

return to my country and embrace my beloved mother.”

“All right; I’ll think it over ... Chenapan!”

Day after day passed—still they did not heat my room, and still he

thought. During that time I reached the last degree of prostration, and

no longer complained to any one, but my eyes shed tears of themselves.

If any dog had been in my position it might have aroused compassion—but

he was silent!

Afterwards I learned that such things are called in the Russian language

“jokes.” But if these are their _jokes_, what must their cruelties be?

At last he sent for me.

“All right,” he said; “I will give you four hundred francs, but only on

condition that you become a convert to the Greek faith.”

I looked into his eyes with amazement, but those eyes expressed nothing,

save an inflexibility that admits of no reply.

I cannot remember how the ceremony was performed.... I am even not quite

certain whether it was a _real_ ceremony, and whether the priest’s part

was not played by the Pompadour’s adjutant disguised.

Justice compels me to add, however, that, after the ceremony was over,

he behaved to me like a _grand seigneur_, that is, he gave me not only

the whole of the sum agreed upon, but also two beautiful, hardly-worn

suits, and ordered that I should be driven free of expense to the

boundary of the next Pompadourdom. My hope did not deceive me. God had

touched his heart at last!

Twelve days later I had reached the banks of the Seine, and, graciously

received back into the service by Monseigneur Maupas, was strolling

about the boulevards, humming merrily—

“Les lois de la France,

Votre Excellence!

Mourir, mourir,

Toujours mourir!”

Oh, ma France!

Oh, ma mère!

[Illustration]

_THE CROCODILE._

AN EXTRAORDINARY EVENT; OR, A PASSAGE IN THE PASSAGE.

(_The true narrative of how a gentleman of a certain age and a certain

appearance was swallowed alive and whole by the crocodile of the

Passage, and of what were the consequences._)

BY FÈDOR DOSTOYÈVSKY.

“Ohè Lambert! Où est Lambert? As tu vu Lambert?”

On the 13th of this present month of January, 1865, at half-past twelve

in the day, Elyòna Ivànovna, the spouse of my learned friend, fellow in

office, and distant connection, Ivan Matvyèich, desired to visit the

crocodile which is now to be seen for a certain price in the

Passage.[40] Ivan Matvyèich, having already in his pocket his ticket for

a foreign tour (it was more for interest than for his health that he was

going abroad), and therefore considering himself as off duty, and

perfectly free for the whole morning, not only did not oppose his wife’s

uncontrollable desire, but even became fired with curiosity himself. “A

splendid idea,” he said contentedly; “we’ll go and see the crocodile.

Before starting for Europe it is well to make oneself acquainted with

its native population;” and with these words he took his wife upon his

arm and instantly started off with her for the Passage. I, as usual,

went along with them, in my character of family friend. I had never seen

Ivan Matvyèich in a more cheerful mood than on that memorable morning.

How true it is that we know not our fate beforehand! The moment we

entered the Passage he went into raptures over the magnificence of the

building, and when we reached the shop in which the newly arrived

monster was on view, he even wished to pay the crocodile keeper the

twenty-five kopecks for my entrance out of his own pocket—a thing which

had never happened with him before. On entering we found ourselves in a

small room, in which, besides the crocodile, were several cockatoos and

a collection of monkeys in a separate cage in the background. To the

left hand of the door, by the wall, stood a large tin tank, something

like a bath, covered with a strong iron-wire netting, and at the bottom

of it were two or three inches of water. In this shallow puddle lay an

enormous crocodile, as still as a log, perfectly motionless, and

appearing to have lost all his powers in our damp and, for foreigners,

inhospitable climate. At first sight the monster aroused no particular

interest in any of us.

“So that’s the crocodile!” said Elyòna Ivànovna regretfully, in a

sing-song voice. “I thought he would be ... quite different somehow.”

She probably expected him to be made of diamonds. The German exhibitor,

at once keeper and owner of the crocodile, who had come into the room,

looked at us with an air of the greatest pride.

“He’s right,” whispered Ivan Matvyèich to me; “for he knows that no one

else in all Russia is exhibiting a crocodile.”

I attributed this utterly senseless remark to the particularly pleasant

humour that Ivan Matvyèich was in, as on the whole he was a very envious

man.

“I think your crocodile is dead,” said Elyòna Ivànovna, piqued by the

ungraciousness of the German, and turning to him with a fascinating

smile, intended to “vanquish this boor”—a peculiarly feminine manœuvre.

“Oh, no, madame,” answered the German in his broken Russian, and,

half-lifting the network of the tank, he began to tap the crocodile on

the head with a cane.

At this the perfidious monster, to show that it was alive, slightly

moved its paws and tail, raised its head and uttered a sound resembling

a prolonged snuffle.

“There, don’t be cross, Karlchen,” caressingly said the German, whose

vanity was flattered.

“What a horrid brute! I am quite afraid of him,” lisped Elyòna Ivànovna

still more coquettishly. “I shall dream of him now at night!”

“But he not vill bite you at ze night, madame,” gallantly rejoined the

German, and burst out laughing at his own joke, though none of us

answered him.

“Come, Semyòn Semyònich,” continued Elyòna Ivànovna, addressing herself

only to me, “let’s go and look at the monkeys. I am awfully fond of

monkeys; some of them are such little loves—but the crocodile is

horrible.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid, my dear,” Ivan Matvyèich called after us, showing

off his bravery before his wife. “This sleepy denizen of the realm of

the Pharaohs will do us no harm;” and he remained beside the tank. He

even took off one glove and began to tickle the crocodile’s nose with

it, in the hope, as he afterwards confessed, of making it snore again.

The keeper, out of politeness to a lady, followed Elyòna Ivànovna to the

monkeys’ cage.

Thus all was well, and there was no sign of coming misfortune. Elyòna

Ivànovna was so much fascinated with the monkeys that she appeared

completely absorbed in them. She uttered screams of delight, talked

incessantly to me, as if wishing to ignore the keeper altogether, and

went into fits of laughing over resemblances which she found in the

monkeys to her most intimate friends and acquaintances. I, too, was

greatly amused, for there could be no doubt as to the likeness. The

German did not know whether to laugh or not, and therefore ended by

scowling. At this moment an appalling—I may even say supernatural—shriek

suddenly shook the room. Not knowing what to think, I stood for a moment

rooted to the spot; then, hearing Elyòna Ivànovna shrieking too, I

turned hastily round—and what did I see! I saw—oh, heavens!—I saw the

unhappy Ivan Matvyèich in the fearful jaws of the crocodile, seized

across the middle, lifted horizontally in the air, and kicking

despairingly. Then, one moment, and he was gone. But I will describe all

in detail, for I was standing motionless the whole time, and observed

the entire process with an attention and curiosity such as I do not

remember experiencing on any other occasion. For, thought I in that

fatal moment, “what if this had happened to me, instead of to Ivan

Matvyèich; how very unpleasant it would be for me!” But to the point.

The crocodile began by turning poor Ivan Matvyèich round in its horrible

jaws feet fore most, swallowed first of all his legs; then let Ivan

Matvyèich, who all this while was clutching at the tank and trying to

jump out, protrude again a little, and sucked him back into its throat

to the waist. Again it let him protrude, and gulped him down once more.

In this manner Ivan Matvyèich was visibly disappearing before our eyes.

At last, with a final gulp, the crocodile drew into itself the whole of

my learned friend, leaving nothing behind. On the surface of the

crocodile one could see how Ivan Matvyèich, in his uniform, completely

passed down its inside. I was just going to cry out again, when suddenly

cruel fate played another jest upon us. The crocodile swelled itself out

(probably half stifled by the enormous size of the mouthful), once more

opened its fearful jaws, and for the last time the head of Ivan

Matvyèich, with a despairing expression on the face, was suddenly

protruded from them. At that instant the spectacles dropped off his nose

into the bottom of the tank. It seemed as if this despairing head

appeared only in order to cast one last glance upon everything, and take

a mute farewell of all the pleasures of this world. But it had no time

to carry out its intention; the crocodile once more gathered up its

powers, gulped, and in a moment the head vanished, and this time for

ever. This appearance and disappearance of a living human head was so

dreadful, but at the same time, whether from the rapidity and

unexpectedness of the event, or whether from the dropping of the

spectacles from the nose, so funny, that I suddenly burst into a quite

unexpected fit of laughter; but realising that for me, in my quality of

family friend, to laugh at such a moment was improper, I instantly

turned to Elyòna Ivànovna, and said to her with a look of sympathy—

“It’s all up now with Ivan Matvyèich!”

I cannot even attempt to describe the agitation of Elyòna Ivànovna

during the whole process. After her first cry she stood for some time as

petrified, and stared at the scene before her, as if indifferently,

though her eyes were starting out of her head; then she suddenly burst

into a piercing shriek. I caught her by the hands. At this moment the

keeper, who until now had also stood petrified with horror, clasped his

hands and raising his eyes to heaven, cried aloud—

“Oh, my crocodile! oh, mein allerliebster Karlchen! Mutter! Mutter!

Mutter!”

At this cry the back door opened, and “Mutter,” a red-cheeked, untidy,

elderly woman in a cap, rushed with a yell towards her son.

There began an awful row. Elyòna Ivànovna, beside herself, reiterated

one single phrase: “Cut it! Cut it!” and rushed from the keeper to the

“Mutter” and back to the keeper, imploring them (evidently in a fit of

frenzy) to “cut” something or some one for some reason. Neither the

keeper nor “Mutter” took any notice of either of us; they were hanging

over the tank and shrieking like stuck pigs.

“He is gone dead; he vill sogleich burst, because he von ganz Tchinovnik

eat up haf!” cried the keeper.

“Unser Karlchen, unser allerliebster Karlchen wird sterben!” wailed the

mother.

“Ve are orphans, vitout bread!” moaned the keeper.

“Cut it! Cut it! Cut it open!” screamed Elyòna Ivànovna, hanging on to

the German’s coat.

“He did teaze ze crocodile; vy your man teaze ze crocodile?” yelled the

German, wriggling away; “you vill pay me if Karlchen wird bersten; dass

war mein Sohn, dass war mein einziger Sohn!”

“Cut it!” shrieked Elyòna Ivànovna.

“How! You will dat my crocodile shall be die?” “No, your man shall be

die first, and denn my crocodile. Mein Vater show von crocodile, mein

Grossvater show von crocodile, mein Sohn shall show von crocodile, and I

shall show von crocodile. All ve shall show crocodile. I am ganz Europa

famous, and you are not ganz Europa famous, and do be me Straf pay

shall!”

“Ja, ja!” agreed the woman, savagely; “ve you not let out; Straf ven

Karlchen vill berst.”

“For that matter,” I put in calmly, in the hope of getting Elyòna

Ivànovna home without further ado, “there’s no use in cutting it open,

for in all probability our dear Ivan Matvyèich is now soaring in the

empyrean....”

“My dear,” remarked at this moment the voice of Ivan Matvyèich, with

startling suddenness, “my advice, my dear, is to act through the bureau

of police, for the German will not comprehend truth without the

assistance of the police.”

These words, uttered with firmness and gravity, and expressing

astonishing presence of mind, at first so much amazed us that we could

not believe our ears. Of course, however, we instantly ran to the

crocodile’s tank and listened to the speech of the unfortunate captive

with a mixture of reverence and distrust. His voice sounded muffled,

thin, and even squeaky, as though coming from a long distance.

“Ivan Matvyèich, my dearest, and are you then alive?” lisped Elyòna

Ivànovna.

“Alive and well,” answered Ivan Matvyèich; “and, thanks to the Almighty,

swallowed whole without injury. I am only disturbed by doubt as to how

the superior authorities will regard this episode; for, after having

taken a ticket to go abroad, to go into a crocodile instead is hardly

sensible.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t worry about sense now; first of all we must somehow

or other dig you out,” interrupted Elyòna Ivànovna.

“Tig!” cried the German. “I not vill let you to tig ze crocodile! Now

shall bery mush _publikum_ be come, and I shall fifety kopeck take, and

Karlchen shall leave off to berst.”

“Gott sei Dank!” added the mother.

“They are right,” calmly remarked Ivan Matvyèich; “the economic

principle before everything.”

“Dear friend!” I exclaimed; “I will fly at once to the authorities and

complain, for I feel convinced that we can’t settle this hash by

ourselves.”

“I also am of that opinion,” said Ivan Matvyèich; “but without an

economic remuneration it is hard, in our age of financial crisis, to rip

open the belly of a crocodile, and, nevertheless, we are confronted with

the inevitable question: What will the owner take for his crocodile?

With this there is also another question: Who is to pay? For you know I

have not the means.”

“Couldn’t you get your salary in advance?”... I began, timidly; but the

German instantly interrupted—

“I not sell ze crocodile. I tree tausend sell ze crocodile, I four

tausend sell ze crocodile! Now shall mush publikum come. I fife tausend

sell ze crocodile!”

In a word, he carried it with a high hand; avarice and greed shone

triumphantly in his eyes.

“I will go!” I cried, indignantly.

“And I! And I, too! I will go to Andrey Osìpych himself—I will move him

with my tears!” wailed Elyòna Ivànovna.

“Don’t do that, my dear,” hastily interrupted Ivan Matvyèich, who had

long been jealous of Andrey Osìpych’s admiration of his wife, and knew

that she was glad of a chance to weep before a man of refinement, as

tears became her very well. “And you, my friend,” he continued,

addressing me, “you had better go to Timofèy Semyònych. And now take

away Elyòna Ivànovna.... Be calm, my love,” he added to her. “I am tired

with all this noise and feminine quarrelling, and wish to take a little

nap. It is warm and soft here, though I have not yet had time to look

about me in this unexpected refuge.”

“Look about you! Is there any light there?” cried Elyòna Ivànovna in

delight.

“I am surrounded by impenetrable darkness,” answered the poor captive;

“but I can feel, and, so to say, look about me with my hands. Good-bye!

Be calm, and do not deny yourself recreation. You, Semyòn Semyònich,

come back to me this evening, and, as you are absent-minded and may

forget, tie a knot in your handkerchief.”

The respectable Timofèy Semyònych received me in a hurried and, as it

were, somewhat embarrassed manner. He took me into his little study and

carefully shut the door: “So that the children shan’t disturb us,” as he

explained with evident anxiety. He then placed me in a seat by the

writing-table, sat down in an armchair, gathered up the tails of his old

wadded dressing-gown, and put on an official, even severe expression,

although he was not in authority over either Ivan Matvyèich or myself,

but simply an acquaintance and fellow-official.

“First of all,” he began, “remember that I am not an authority; I am a

mere subordinate, like yourself or Ivan Matvyèich. I am an outsider, and

do not intend to mix myself up with anything.”

He evidently knew all, much to my astonishment. However, I told him the

whole story over again, with all details. I spoke with emotion, for at

that moment I was fulfilling the duty of a true friend. He listened

without any great surprise, but with evident suspiciousness.

“Just imagine,” he said, when I had done; “I always expected that this

very thing would happen to him.”

“But why, Timofèy Semyònych—the case is a most exceptional one?”

“Certainly. But during the whole term of his service Ivan Matvyèich has

been leading up to this result. He’s too nimble—yes, and too conceited.

Always ‘progress’ and new-fangled ideas—and that’s where progress ends.”

“Well, but this is an altogether extraordinary occurrence; one can’t put

it forward as a general rule for all progressists.”

“Yes, but that’s just how it is. You see, all this comes of too much

learning—it does, believe me, sir. People that have too much learning

always will poke their noses everywhere, and particularly where they’re

not wanted. However, of course you know best,” he added, in a

half-offended tone; “I’m an old man, and not so well educated as you; I

entered the service from a school for soldiers’ children, and my

fifty-years’ jubilee was this year.”

“Oh no, indeed, Timofèy Semyònych, how can you! On the contrary, Ivan

Matvyèich longs for your advice, for your guidance. Even, so to say,

with tears.”

“‘Even, so to say, with tears.’ H’m, indeed! Well, those are crocodile

tears, and mustn’t be too much believed in. Now, just tell me, what put

it into his head to go abroad? And on what money? He has nothing, has

he?”

“Only savings, Timofèy Semyònych,” I answered, sadly, “from the last

perquisites. He only wanted to travel for three months—to Switzerland—to

the fatherland of William Tell.”

“William Tell. H’m!”

“And to Naples, to see the spring there. He wished to see the museums,

the life, the animals.”

“H’m, animals? In my opinion all that is nothing but pride. What

animals? Animals? Haven’t we animals enough at home? We have zoological

gardens, museums, camels. There are wild bears quite near to Petersburg.

And now, you see, he went and tumbled into a crocodile.”

“Timofèy Semyònych, for mercy’s sake—a man in trouble—a man comes as to

his friend, as to an elder relative, imploring advice, and you—reproach

him. Have pity, at least, upon the unhappy Elyòna Ivànovna!”

“You are speaking of his wife? A charming lady!” remarked Timofèy

Semyònych, evidently softening, and taking a pinch of snuff with much

gusto. “A person of subtle refinement. So nice and plump, and the head

just on one side—just a _leetle_ on one side. Very agreeable—yes. Andrey

Osìpych mentioned her again the day before yesterday.”

“Mentioned her?”

“Mentioned her, and in the most flattering terms. ‘Such a bust,’ he

said, ‘such a glance, such hair! A sugar-plum,’ he said, ‘not a lady!’

and he began to laugh. They are both young people still.” (Here Timofèy

Semyònych blew his nose loudly.) “And yet, you see, a young man, and

what a career he’s made for himself!”

“Yes; but this is quite another case, Timofèy Semyònych.”

“Oh, of course, of course!”

“Well then, Timofèy Semyònych, how is it to be?”

“Why, what can I do?”

“Advise us, guide us, as a man of experience—as a parent! What shall we

do? Go to the authorities, or——”

“To the authorities? On no account!” hastily exclaimed Timofèy

Semyònych. “If you want my advice, I say the first thing is to hush up

the matter, and act in the character of a private person. It is a

suspicious case, an unheard of case. The worst is that it’s unheard

of—there’s no precedent—indeed, it looks very bad. So that the first of

all things is caution. Let him stop where he is a bit. He must have

patience, patience!”

“But how can he stop there, Timofèy Semyònych? Supposing he chokes to

death?”

“Why should he? Didn’t you tell me that he had made rather a comfortable

arrangement for himself there?”

I repeated all over again. Timofèy Semyònych meditated.

“H’m!” he pronounced, holding his snuff-box in his hands; “in my opinion

it will be even a very good thing for him to stop there a bit, instead

of going abroad. He can think at his leisure; of course it wouldn’t do

to choke, and he must take measures for the preservation of his

health.... I mean—he must take care not to get a cough or anything....

And as for the German, my personal opinion is that he is right—more so

than the other side, indeed; because, you see, Ivan Matvyèich got into

_his_ crocodile without leave, and not _he_ into Ivan Matvyèich’s

crocodile; indeed, so far as I remember, Ivan Matvyèich had no crocodile

of his own. Very well, then, a crocodile constitutes private property,

therefore without remuneration it cannot be cut open, as I take it.”

“To save a human life, Timofèy Semyònych.”

“Oh well, that’s the business of the police. You should apply to them.”

“But then, again, Ivan Matvyèich may be needed. He may be sent for——”

“Ivan Matvyèich needed? Ha, ha, ha! Besides, he is supposed to be on

furlough, therefore we can ignore the whole matter and suppose him to be

looking at European lands. It will be another case if he doesn’t turn up

at the end of his furlough; then, of course, we must make inquiries.”

“Three months! Timofèy Semyònych, for mercy’s sake!”

“It’s his own fault. Who asked him to poke his nose in there? I suppose

the next thing will be there’ll have to be a nursemaid hired for him at

Government expense, and that’s not stated in the regulations. But the

main point is that the crocodile is property, therefore what is called

the economic principle comes into play. And the economic principle is

before everything. Now, the day before yesterday, at Loukà Andrèich’s

evening, Ignàtyi Prokòfich was talking about that. He’s a capitalist, a

business man, and he put it all so plainly, you know: ‘What we want,’ he

said, ‘is industry; we have too little industry. It must be created. We

must create capital; that is, we must create a middle-class, we must

create what is called a bourgeoisie. And as we have no capital, we must

import it from abroad. In the first place, we must give full liberty to

foreign companies to buy up our land in lots, as is the accepted custom

now abroad. Communal property,’ said he, ‘is poison—it is ruin!’ And you

know he talked so hotly—of course, such men as he have a right to—men of

capital; ... and then, he doesn’t serve. ‘With communal property,’ said

he, ‘neither industry nor agriculture will improve. What we need,’ said

he, ‘is that the foreign companies should buy up as much as possible of

our land in lots, and then divide, divide, divide it up into as many

little pieces as they can’—and you should have heard how positively he

said it: ‘di-v-vide,’ said he—‘and then sell it for private property.

That is—not exactly sell it, but let it. Then,’ said he, ‘when all the

land will be in the hands of the foreign companies that will have been

invited over, then, of course, the rent can be put up to any figure you

like. The result of that will be that the peasant will work three times

as much as now, for bare bread, and we shall be able to do anything we

like with him. Undoubtedly he will feel, he will be humble and

submissive, and will do three times the work for the same price. But

now, with common property, what can you do with him? He knows he won’t

starve, and so he gets lazy, and drinks. And then, besides all that,

money will come in, and capital will be created, and a bourgeoisie will

grow up. Now, the English political paper, the _Times_, speaking of our

finances, expressed the opinion that the reason our finances do not grow

is, that we have no middle-class, no long purses, no submissive

proletariat....’ Ah! Ignàtyi Prokòfich speaks well; he’s an orator. He

is going to send in a report to the authorities, and then have it

printed in the _News_. That’s a very different thing from Ivan Matvyèich

and his verses....”

“And what about Ivan Matvyèich?” I asked, when I had let the old man

talk to his heart’s content. Timofèy Semyònych liked to talk this way

sometimes, to show that he knew everything and was not behind the age.

“Ivan Matvyèich? Well, that is just what I was leading up to. As you

see, we are making efforts to attract foreign capital into the country,

and now judge for yourself: the capital of the crocodile-keeper (a

foreigner attracted here) has barely had time to become doubled by means

of Ivan Matvyèich, and we, instead of protecting the foreign possessor

of property, are aiming, on the contrary, to rip open the belly of the

fundamental capital itself! Now, really, is that consistent? In my

opinion, Ivan Matvyèich, as a true son of the Fatherland, should even be

glad and proud that, by the addition of himself, he has doubled, and

maybe trebled, the value of the foreign crocodile. That, sir, is an

essential feature in the attracting of capital. If one succeeds, perhaps

another will come with a crocodile, and a third will bring two or three

at once, and capital will collect round them. And so you get your

bourgeoisie. People must be encouraged, my good sir.”

“But, Timofèy Semyònych,” I exclaimed, “you demand almost supernatural

self-abnegation of poor Ivan Matvyèich!”

“And who told him to get into the crocodile? A respectable man, a man

holding a certain position, living in lawful wedlock, and suddenly—such

a step? Now, _is_ that consistent?”

“But the step was taken unintentionally.”

“How should I know that? And then, how is the crocodile-keeper to be

paid, eh? No, no, he had better stop where he is; he has nowhere to

hurry to.”

A happy thought flashed into my mind.

“Can’t we manage it this way,” said I. “If he is fated to stay in the

entrails of the monster, and if, by the will of Providence, he remains

alive, can’t he send in a petition that he shall be regarded as serving

during his sojourn there?”

“H’m; you mean, as on furlough, without salary?”

“No, I mean with his salary.”

“On what ground?”

“As being on an expedition, on Government service——”

“What expedition? Where to?”

“Why, into the entrails—the crocodile’s entrails.... So to say, to

collect information, to study facts on the spot. Of course it is a new

idea, but then it is progressive, and at the same time it shows care for

education.”

Timofèy Semyònych meditated.

“To despatch an official,” he remarked, at last, “into a crocodile’s

entrails on a special commission, is, according to my personal opinion,

absurd. It is not in accordance with the regulations. And then, what

commission can there be to fulfil there?”

“Well, you know, natural philosophy—I mean the study of Nature on the

spot, in the living organism. Natural science is all the rage now, and

botany and all that.... He could live there and give information....

Well, for instance, about the digestion ... or even the general habits.

For the obtaining of facts.”

“That is to say, in the department of statistics. Well, I’m not strong

on that point, and then I’m not a philosopher. You say—facts; as it is,

we’re crowded out with facts, and don’t know what to do with them all.

And then these statistics are dangerous things.”

“How so?”

“Very dangerous. And, moreover, you must admit that he will have to

communicate his facts while lying down at his ease. How can a man be on

Government service while he’s lying down? That, again, is an innovation,

and a dangerous one; and for that, too, there is no precedent. Now, if

there were even _any_ sort of precedent, then, in my opinion, it might

be possible to arrange a commission.”

“But up till now live crocodiles have not been brought here, Timofèy

Semyònych.”

“H’m, yes.”... He meditated again. “There is some truth in your

argument, and it might even serve as a basis for the further development

of the case. But again, on the other hand, if with the introduction of

live crocodiles Government servants begin to disappear, and then, in

consideration of the fact that it is soft and warm inside there, begin

to demand commissions to live there, and then spend their time lying

down, you must acknowledge it’ll be a bad example. You see, if it were

so, every one would be wanting to get paid for nothing. Well, good-bye;

I must go to Nikìfor Nikìforych; are you coming?”

“No, I must go back to the captive.”

“Ah, yes, to the captive. Oh-h-h! That’s what frivolity leads to!”

* * * * *

When I reached the Passage it was about nine o’clock, and I had to enter

the crocodile-room by the back door; for the German had shut up his

place earlier than usual. He was walking about at his ease in a greasy

old coat, and was evidently three times more self-satisfied even than in

the morning. It was plain that he was troubled with no fears, and that

“bery mush publikum” had come. “Mutter” came out, too, evidently for the

purpose of keeping a watch upon me. She and her son often whispered

together. Although the premises were shut up, the German took

twenty-five kopecks as entrance-fee from me. That seems to me an excess

of accuracy!

“You vill pay ebery time; ze publikum vill pay von rouble, and you vill

pay twenti-fife kopeck, vy for you are von goot friend ob your goot

friend, and I honour ze friend.”

“Is he alive? Is my learned friend alive?” I cried, loudly, approaching

the crocodile.

“Alive and well,” he answered, as if from the far distance; “but of that

afterwards. What news?”

Pretending not to hear the question, I began hastily and with sympathy

to put questions in my turn. I asked him how he was, how he got on in

the crocodile, and what the inside of a crocodile is like. But he

interrupted me irritably.

“What news?” he shouted, in his squeaky voice, which sounded now

peculiarly unpleasant.

I related to him all my conversation with Timofèy Semyònych, to the

minutest detail. In relating it, I tried to express that I was somewhat

hurt.

“The old man is right,” said Ivan Matvyèich; “I like practical people,

and can’t bear sentimental milksops. Sit down anywhere—on the floor if

you like—and listen to me:

“Now, for the first time, I have leisure to think out how to improve the

lot of all humanity. Out of the crocodile shall come forth light and

truth. I shall now invent a new theory, all my own, of new economic

relations—a theory of which I can be proud. Up till now my time has been

occupied with the service and with the frivolous amusements of the

world. Now I shall overthrow everything and become a new Fourier. But to

the point. Where is my wife?”

I told him how I had left Elyòna Ivànovna; but he did not even hear me

out.

“I build great hopes upon her,” he said. “From next week she must begin

to throw open her drawing-room every evening. I feel sure that the

keeper will sometimes bring me, together with the crocodile, into my

wife’s brilliant salon. I will stand, in my tank, in the splendid

reception-room and shower around me witty sayings, which I will think

out beforehand, in the mornings. I will confide my projects to

statesmen, with poets I will speak of verse, with the ladies I will be

amusing and fascinating (though strictly moral), and I shall have the

advantage of being quite innocuous for their husbands. To the rest of

society I will serve as an example of submission to fate and to the will

of Providence.”

I confess that, though all this was something in Ivan Matvyèich’s usual

style, it came into my head that he was feverish and light-headed. This

was the ordinary, every day Ivan Matvyèich twenty times magnified.

“My friend,” I asked him, “do you hope for a long life? Tell me about

yourself: are you well? How do you eat, sleep and breathe? I am your

friend, and indeed you must acknowledge that the case is altogether

supernatural, therefore my curiosity is altogether natural.”

“Idle curiosity and nothing more,” he answered, sententiously; “but you

shall be satisfied. You ask: How am I domiciled in the entrails of the

monster? In the first place, the crocodile, to my great surprise, turns

out to be completely hollow. Its interior consists of what appears to be

an enormous empty sack, made of gutta-percha. If it were not so, think

yourself, how could I find room in it?”

“Is it possible?” I exclaimed in utter stupefaction. “Can the crocodile

really be quite empty?”

“Quite,” severely and dogmatically affirmed Ivan Matvyèich. “In all

probability it is so constructed in accordance with the laws of Nature

herself. The crocodile has only jaws, furnished with sharp teeth, and,

in addition to the jaws, a rather long tail; and in reality that is all.

In the middle, between these two extremities, is an empty space,

enclosed in something which resembles indiarubber, and which, in all

probability, is indiarubber.”

“But the ribs, the stomach, the intestines, the liver, the heart?” I

interrupted almost crossly.

“There is nothing, absolutely no-th-thing of the kind, and probably

there never was anything of the kind. All those things are the idle

fancies of frivolous travellers. Just as you swell out an air-cushion

with air, so I now swell out the crocodile with my person. It is elastic

to an incredible degree. For that matter, this hollow formation of the

crocodile is fully in accordance with natural science. For supposing,

for instance, you were commissioned to construct a new crocodile, the

question would naturally present itself to you: What is the fundamental

characteristic of the crocodile? The answer is plain: To swallow people.

How should this aim—the swallowing of people—be attained in the

construction of the crocodile? The answer is still plainer: Make him

hollow. The science of physics has long proved that Nature abhors a

vacuum. According to this law, the interior of the crocodile must

necessarily be empty, in order that the crocodile may abhor a vacuum and

may therefore swallow everything that comes to hand, so as to fill

itself up. And this is the only reasonable cause that all crocodiles eat

men. Now, the construction of man is different: for instance, the

emptier is a human head, the less desire it feels to fill itself up; and

this is the only exception to the general rule. All this has now become

to me as clear as day; all this I have comprehended out of my own

intellect and experience, being, as it were, in the entrails of Nature,

in Nature’s retort, listening to the beating of her pulse. Even

etymology agrees with my theory, for the very name of the crocodile

implies devouring greed. ‘Crocodile,’ ‘_crocodillo_,’ is an Italian

word—a word contemporary, it may be, with the ancient Egyptian Pharaohs,

and evidently derived from the French root, _croquer_, which means: to

eat, to devour, or in any way to use (any object) for food. All this I

intend to explain in my first lecture to the audience which will

assemble in Elyòna Ivànovna’s salon, when I am carried there in my

tank.”

“My dear friend, don’t you think you had better take a—a cooling

medicine?” I involuntarily exclaimed. “He’s delirious, delirious!” I

repeated to myself in horror.

“Fiddlesticks!” he replied, contemptuously; “moreover, in my present

position that would be not altogether convenient. For that matter, I

knew you would begin to talk about cooling medicines.”

“Ivan Matvyèich,” said I; “it is hard to believe all the wonders you

speak of. And do you mean to tell me that you really, really intend

never to dine any more?”

“What silly things you think about, you frivolous rattlepate! I tell you

of great ideas and you.... Know then, that I am sufficiently nourished

with the great ideas that illumine the night which surrounds me. For the

rest, the good-natured keeper of the monster has talked the matter over

with his kind-hearted mother, and they have decided together that every

morning they will introduce into the jaws of the crocodile a curved

metallic tube, something like a shepherd’s pipe, through which I am to

suck coffee or broth with white bread soaked in it. The tube has already

been ordered from a neighbouring shop, but I consider that this is

superfluous luxury. I hope to live, at the least, a thousand years, if

it be true that crocodiles live so long (by the by, you had better look

that up to-morrow in some book on natural history and let me know, for I

may have made a mistake and confused the crocodile with some other

fossil). One consideration alone somewhat disturbs me. As I am dressed

in cloth and have boots on my feet, the crocodile is, evidently, unable

to digest me; moreover, I am alive and resist the digesting of myself

with all my force of will; for, naturally, I do not wish to turn into

what all food turns into, as that would be too humiliating. But I fear

one thing: in the course of a thousand years the cloth of my coat

(which, unfortunately, is of Russian manufacture) may decay, and I,

remaining without clothes, may then, notwithstanding all my indignation,

begin to be digested; and, although by day I shall not permit—shall not

under any circumstances allow this,—by night, in sleep, when man is

deprived of his free will, I may be overtaken by the most humiliating

doom of a mere potato, pancake, or slice of veal. The thought of this

drives me to frenzy. If only on this ground the Revenue law must be

changed in order to encourage the importation of English cloth, which is

stronger, and therefore will resist nature longer in cases of persons

tumbling into crocodiles. I shall take the earliest opportunity of

communicating this idea to some statesman, and also to the political

critics of our St. Petersburg daily papers. They can cry it up. I hope

that this will not be the only idea they will take from me. I foresee

that every morning a whole assembly of them, armed with editorial

twenty-five kopeck pieces, will crowd around me, to catch my thoughts

upon the telegrams of the day before. In short, the future appears to me

in quite a rose-coloured light.”

“High fever, high fever!” I whispered to myself.

“But, my friend, what about liberty?” I asked, wishing to hear all he

had to say upon that point. “You see, you are, as it were, in a dungeon,

whereas man should enjoy freedom.”

“You are stupid,” he replied. “Savages care for independence, but wise

men love only order, and there is no order——”

“Ivan Matvyèich, have a little pity on me!”

“Silence! Listen!” he screamed out in his rage at being interrupted. “My

spirit has never soared so high as now. In my narrow retreat I have but

one fear: the literary criticism of the big magazines, and the gibes of

our satirical papers. I fear that frivolous visitors, fools, envious

persons, and nihilists generally, may hold me up to ridicule. But I will

take measures. I await with impatience to-morrow’s expression of public

opinion, and, above all, the criticisms in the newspapers. Be sure and

tell me about the papers to-morrow. But enough; you are probably sleepy.

Go home, and don’t think of what I said about criticism. I am not afraid

of criticism, for it is in a critical position itself. It is sufficient

to be wise and virtuous, and you are certain to be raised upon a

pedestal. If you do not become Socrates you will become Diogenes, or

perhaps both at once, and that is my future vocation as regards

humanity.”

“Your friend is von bery clefer man,” remarked the German to me in an

undertone, as he came up to let me out; he had been listening

attentively to all our conversation.

“By the by,” said I; “so as not to forget;—how much would you take for

your crocodile, in case any one should think of buying it?”

Ivan Matvyèich, hearing this question, awaited the answer with interest.

It was evident that he did not wish the German to take too little; at

any rate, he uttered a very peculiar grunt when I put the question.

At first the German would not even listen; he grew quite angry.

“No man not shall to buy my own eigener crocodile!” he cried furiously,

reddening like a boiled lobster. “I not vill ze crocodile to sell! I for

ze crocodile von million thaler to take not vill! I von hondert treety

thaler to-day from ze publikum take, and to-morrow ten tausend thaler

take, and zen von hondert tausend thaler every day to take vill. I not

vill sell.”

Ivan Matvyèich even sniggered with pleasure.

Controlling my indignation, coldly and calmly—for I was fulfilling the

duty of a true friend—I suggested to the crazy German that his

calculations were not altogether correct; that if he were to take

100,000 a day he would soon exhaust the population of St. Petersburg,

and then would get no more money, that life and death are in God’s

hands, that the crocodile might somehow burst, that Ivan Matvyèich might

fall ill and die, &c., &c.

The German meditated.

“I to him from the apotheke drops vill bring,” he said, after thinking

it over, “and your friend shall not die.”

“Drops are all very well,” said I; “but also consider that a law-suit

may be started. Ivan Matvyèich’s wife may demand her lawful husband. You

intend to get rich, but do you intend to settle any pension upon Elyòna

Ivànovna?”

“No, vot for I intent?” exclaimed the German, sternly and decidedly.

“No, vot for ve intent!” repeated the mother, angrily.

“Very well, then; would it not be better for you to take now, at once, a

definite and certain sum, if even a moderate one, than to plunge into

uncertainty? I consider it my duty to inform you that I put the question

not from idle curiosity.”

The German took his mother for consultation into the corner where stood

the cage containing the largest and most hideous monkey of the whole

collection.

“Now you’ll see,” said Ivan Matvyèich to me.

For my part, at that moment I was burning with the longing, firstly, to

cudgel the German soundly; secondly, to cudgel the mother still more

soundly; and thirdly, to cudgel Ivan Matvyèich most soundly of all for

his boundless conceit. But all this was as nothing in comparison with

the greedy German’s answer.

After discussing the point with his mother, he demanded in exchange for

his crocodile: 50,000 roubles in tickets for the latest internal loan

lottery, a stone house in the Goròkhovaya Street, with a pharmacy of his

own, and, in addition, the rank of a Russian colonel.

“There, you see!” cried Ivan Matvyèich, triumphantly; “I told you so!

Except for the last absurd demand to be made a colonel, he is perfectly

right, for he thoroughly understands the present value of the monster he

exhibits. The economic principle before all!”

“Gracious heavens!” I exclaimed, turning furiously to the German. “What

do you want to be colonel for? What feat have you performed, what

service have you done, what military fame have you attained to? Why, you

must be mad to say such a thing!”

“Mad!” shrieked the offended German; “no, I am von very clefer man, and

you are von very sheep-head! I haf merited ze colonel, vy for I did show

ze crocodile, and in him von life Hof-rath sit, and no Russian not did

show von crocodile, and in him von life Hof-rath sit. I am von wunderbar

clefer man, and I to be colonel much vill like!”

“Good-bye, Ivan Matvyèich!” I cried, quivering with rage, and almost ran

out of the house. I felt that in another moment I should not be able to

answer for myself. The wild hopes of these two idiots were simply

unendurable. The cold air refreshed me and somewhat calmed down my

indignation, and at last I took a sledge, drove home, undressed, and

threw myself upon my bed.

* * * * *

Meditating, over my morning cup of tea, upon all the occurrences of the

preceding day, I decided to go at once to Elyòna Ivànovna, on my way to

the Department, as, indeed, I was bound to do in my character of

domestic friend.

In a tiny room adjoining her bedroom, and called the “little

drawing-room” (though their “big drawing-room” was little enough), on a

little fancy sofa beside a little tea-table, in a half-ethereal morning

_négligé_, sat Elyòna Ivànovna, sipping coffee out of a little cup, in

which she dipped the minutest of rusks. She looked distractingly pretty,

but also, I thought, somewhat pensive.

“Ah, it is you, bad boy!” she said, greeting me with an absent smile;

“sit down, you frivolous person, and drink some coffee. Well, what did

you do yesterday? Were you at the masked ball?”

“Were you? I never go ... and then I spent the evening visiting our

captive.”

“Who? what captive?... Ah, yes, of course! Poor fellow! Well, how is he?

Very blue? By the by, I wanted to ask you ... I suppose I can claim a

divorce now?”

“Divorce!” I ejaculated indignantly, and nearly upset my coffee. “It’s

that black-whiskered fellow,” I said to myself, inwardly fuming.

There existed a certain person with black whiskers (he served in the

Building Department) who had taken to visiting at the house rather too

often, and who greatly amused Elyòna Ivànovna. I acknowledge that I

detested him, and there could be no question that he had already

contrived to see her, either here or at the masked ball, and had been

talking all sorts of nonsense to her.

“Well, you know,” Elyòna Ivànovna began hastily, as if she had learned

her speech by heart, “very likely he’ll stop in the crocodile all his

life, and never come back at all, and what’s the use of my sitting here

and waiting for him? One’s husband ought to live at home, not in a

crocodile!”

“But then this is an unforeseen case,” I began, in very natural

agitation.

“No, no, no! I won’t hear anything! I don’t want to!” she cried out,

suddenly firing up. “You always oppose me, you horrid wretch! There’s no

doing anything with you, you never will advise one! Why, even strangers

have told me that I can get a divorce now, because Ivan Matvyèich won’t

get his salary.”

I began to relate to her all the plans expressed by Ivan Matvyèich the

day before. The idea of the evenings at home pleased her greatly.

“Only I shall want heaps of new dresses,” she remarked; “and so Ivan

Matvyèich must manage to send me a lot of money, and as soon as

possible.... Only ... only, you know,” she added, meditatively, “how

about his being brought to me in a tank? That is absurd. I don’t want my

husband to be carried in a tank. I shall feel ashamed before my

visitors. I don’t want that ... no, no.”

“By the by, did Timofèy Semyònych call on you yesterday evening?”

“Oh, yes; he came to console me, and do you know, we played at trumps

all the time. When he lost, he had to give me sweets, and when I lost I

had to let him kiss my hands. What a rogue he is! And do you know, he

very nearly went to the masked ball with me. Really!”

“He’s bewitched,” I replied; “and whom can’t you bewitch, you

sorceress!”

“Oh, there, if you’re going to begin with your compliments! Look here, I

want to pinch you before you go. I’ve learned to pinch most frightfully.

There! What do you think of that! Oh, by the by, did Ivan Matvyèich

often speak of me yesterday evening?”

“N—n—no, not very often ... in fact, he thinks more just now of the

destinies of humanity, and wishes to——.”

“There, there! Let him think! You needn’t finish; I’m sure it’s

something awfully dull. I shall run in and visit him some time. I’ll be

sure and go to-morrow. Only not to-day; my head aches, and there will be

such a lot of people there.... They will say, ‘That’s his wife,’ and I

shall feel confused.... Good-bye. In the evening shall you be there?”

“With him, of course. He asked me to bring him the newspapers.”

“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]