“‘Wherever you like. It was nothing but an absurd mistake.’”

“Why, yes, of course,” remarked the officer in a dignified manner, but

in a certain tone of relief; “that was to be expected.”

“Yes,” continued the narrator; “‘a mistake,’ says he. ‘Ah, well,’

thought I to myself, ‘may the Lord be praised for that.’ I just gathered

up my coat-tails, and off I went—it was after dark—to the railway

station. And when I got to that cursed town of ours, I drove through it

hiding my face, and went straight to my own farmhouse. I didn’t even go

into the new house; and to this day I don’t care to live in it, as I

hope to be saved! If anybody cared to buy it of me, I’d sell it at their

own price. Well, I got to the farm, and shut myself up under lock and

key, and wouldn’t let the workmen or clerks or any one come near me; I

wouldn’t even have my wife and children about me. I couldn’t come to

myself after it all; I wasn’t fit for anything; it seemed as if I

couldn’t move a limb. I just ate and slept, ate and slept; that was all

I cared to do.”

“That’s the way you took your recreation, I suppose,” asked one of the

skinflints.

“You’re in too much of a hurry—recreation! Just hear what happened

next.”

“You don’t mean to say anything more happened?” asked the officer.

“Oh, dear me! yes. You see, it was always one mistake after another; and

we never could get to the root of the thing. You’ll see how it all came

out at last.”

“And where was the apothecary?”

“You’ll hear; only I must tell you from the beginning. The apothecary’ll

turn up if you wait a bit. Well, you see, I stopped at the farm a month,

eating and sleeping, and unstiffening my joints in the bath; and I left

the house in town to my nephew to look after; and, my word, he did give

those scoundrels a lesson! He’s the lad to make the sparks fly! But all

that doesn’t belong to the story. Well, as I said, I stopped there a

month, resting and coming to my senses, when one day, who should come

riding up but a mounted gendarme! My heart just leaped into my mouth!

Lord have mercy upon us sinners! What could it be? He handed me a

paper—a summons to appear in court ‘What for?’—‘It says there.’—So I

read the paper; it was a summons to appear and answer for insulting the

police in the discharge of their duty. Very good; I read it, and signed

my name. But it just made my heart burn—that was really _too_ much of a

good thing! What sort of duty do they call that? I’m hit over the head,

and I’m responsible! I can’t see much duty in promiscuous fisticuffing.

‘No, no, my friends,’ thought I to myself, ‘I’ve had enough of this;

you’ve played your little game, and that’ll do. If his Excellency

himself took my part, and let me go free as an innocent man, you needn’t

think you can get the better of me, not a bit of it!’ I had a _troika_

harnessed at once, went straight to the town, and telegraphed to Moscow

for an advocate: ‘_Fisticuffing_ versus _Fisticuffing_. _Prosecution.

Will pay 1,000 roubles._’ And a fine kettle of fish they got ready! So

when the trial was to be, I went to Moscow with my wife. We got to the

court quite early, before nine in the morning; and the trial wasn’t to

begin till twelve; so we sat down in the porch to wait. All of a sudden

up comes my apothecary. He came along dragging one foot after the other,

all thin and shabby, for all the world like a beggar.—‘Where have you

come from?’ I asked him.—‘That’s more than I know myself; my health’s

gone to pieces; I’ve got rheumatism in both my legs; I’m half dead.’—And

it was quite true; he had a cough, and couldn’t get his breath. He sat

down on the step with us, and I said to him: ‘Well, well, friend! your

pills have cost me something; I shall remember them, never fear!’—‘D’you

think they didn’t cost _me_ anything?’ says he.—And so he told me how it

had all happened: how he missed me at the tavern, and all that I told

you before. ‘To this day,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got back the use of my

arm, since they hit me on the shoulder when they took away the pills,’

[Illustration:

“HE CAME ALONG DRAGGING ONE FOOT AFTER ANOTHER.”

]

“‘But why didn’t you give up the pills?’

“‘I was afraid to; they were illegal pills. I made them for you, as a

friend, because I know your temperament.’

So then I asked him how did the whole thing happen; and he told me—

“‘That’s just what I can’t make out for the life of me. They tore off

with me to the other end of the world; and then there came a telegram:

‘_Send him back; its the wrong man._’ So they brought me back; and I

began asking at the head office what it was all about. They poked and

muddled and fussed over their papers, and at last they got to the root

of the whole matter. And what do you think it was? What do you suppose

was the cause of it all?’

“‘How should I know? I’ve hardly got to the bottom of my own case yet.’

‘Well,’ says he, ‘it was all because of that scoundrel Lipàtkin.’

“Lipàtkin, I must tell you, is a shopkeeper in our town; he’s just a

regular bloodsucker, and nothing else. So I asked him what Lipàtkin

could have to do with it; and he said—

“‘When I had the business at Sousàlov, I hired rooms from him, and it

was in the contract that I should repair the roof. Well, if you

remember, I didn’t get on; and so I left the town and didn’t repair the

roof, because, you see, as I had paid beforehand, and went away four

months before the time was up, I didn’t see that I was bound to do it. I

gave up my business, and off I went. But old Lipàtka[57] thought he’d

screw some money out of me; so he hunted up some pettifogging notary and

scribbled off a complaint to the Medical Department at St. Petersburg,

asking to have apothecary so-and-so forced to pay, and all the rest of

it. Well, in the Medical Department they didn’t take the trouble to go

into it; they just wrote off to the administration in my province. And

when it got to the head office of the province, they mixed up one paper

with another; and they wrote to the district office: ‘_Summon the

apothecary to explain_.’ So when the paper got to the district, I wasn’t

there, so they set to work and made up a third paper: ‘_Find and forward

apothecary_.’ And off they sent it to Moscow. So in Moscow they hunted

me up. As soon as ever I got to Moscow and handed in my passport to the

police, of course they nabbed me. Well, then, of course there were those

unlucky pills; they wanted to take them away, and I wouldn’t give them

up, and tried to hide them. And so they began to suspect all sorts of

things. And at last they got so muddled at the head office that they

mixed everything up together, and somehow the devil got into the thing.

And now that I’ve gone back to my lodgings, all my luggage is stolen,

and I don’t know what on earth I am to do.’

“So I asked him what he was there for; and he said—

“‘Why, to answer that old bloodsucker’s summons.’

“‘About the roof?’

“‘Yes; still that confounded roof. He wants thirty-four and a half

roubles; but I shan’t give him a penny. And I shall call him up for the

four months’ over-payment. I’ve begun a counter-suit against him. Two

can play at that game, my fine fellow! I’ve dug a little pit too! When

they’ve heard both our cases, you’d better come to my lodgings to rest.’

“Well, the law-suits began. First of all they heard the case of the

apothecary and Lipàtkin, and found for the apothecary, and Lipàtkin

didn’t get a penny. So when that was done, they took up my case. Dear

heart! what a business it was! I can tell you my great gun of a counsel

hit the right nail on the head; he didn’t leave them a leg to stand on.

At last the public prosecutor got up and said—‘No,’ says he, ‘it’s no

use; I give it up.’ But mine never stopped; he just went on hammering

and blazing, and letting off fireworks at them; and the end of it was

they all got up and said: ‘He’s innocent!’ And there you are.”

“There’s a statute about that,” interrupted one of the skinflints: ‘_In

cases of reciprocal fisticuffing and mutual personal insults, all

parties are innocent._’

“That’s just it. ‘You’re innocent,’ said they, ‘because the fisticuffing

was reciprocal. You can go home.’ So we went out into the street, all

the lot of us: the Mediterranean squadron, and the carpenters, and the

doorkeepers, and I; and there we stood in the street, fifty or sixty of

us, like so many green geese. You see, it was a bit strange; we’d been

banging and slashing at each other like the biggest blackguards you

could find; and here we come out as innocent as new-born babes. So there

we stood on the pavement, as dumb as any stocks and stones. All of a

sudden up comes that knave Rodiòn, with his cap off.”

“‘I’ve come to ask your honour’s pardon.’

“‘I should just think you had, after what you’ve done, you blockhead!’

“‘Well, I don’t know, sir.... We were told to let the police know,

because there was one of those papers. People like us only have to do as

we are told.... Just pass it over this once, sir, and take me on

again.... The Lord will reward you for it.... It’s very hard on a poor

man; it all comes upon us.’ Of course as soon as Rodiòn had done, a

carpenter began—‘Forget and forgive, sir....’ You know yourself the

times are so bad nowadays.... What could we do, when they said to us:

“Mind you watch him carefully; he’s mixed up in a bad business!” ‘Don’t

take it ill, sir.’... ‘So it was you, was it, you blockhead,’ I asked,

‘that got me into trouble?’ ‘If you please, sir, it was all of us. But,

if you please, sir, it seems to me that we’re pretty well quits; for

you’ve got a good-sized fist of your own, and you let us know it.’—Well,

as soon as the carpenter had done, the gendarmes began: ‘It was all a

misunderstanding; we’re very sorry.’ So I told them: ‘It’s all very well

to be sorry; but what did you give me so many bruises for?’ ‘Well,’ said

one, ‘you laid my cheek open.’ And then another put in: ‘We only obeyed

orders; we had a telegram.... And you knocked me down, you know.... It

was nothing but a misunderstanding.... We always.... As you’re a

householder we’re very sorry....’ Then it was just the same with the

apothecary; Lipàtkin came up and said: ‘Let’s make it up; don’t go to

law against me.’ And the clerk of the police-station began excusing

himself: ‘You know what troubled times we have nowadays! If a fellow has

to sit the whole day long, from morning till night, writing _Instantly_,

and _Apprehend_, and _Produce_, it’s not much wonder if he makes a

mistake.... Such dangerous times!’... And they all came swarming round

me together: ‘Such terrible times nowadays.... If it wasn’t for the

times.... We’re very.... With the utmost respect.... Nothing but a

mistake.’ And bless you! _I_ understood that the blockheads only wanted

to be treated all round! You see, they’d all been so very painstaking;

and nobody was guilty; and yet there was no drink going! They thought I

ought to have a glass with them. ‘No, no! my fine fellows,’ says I, ‘if

you weren’t such a set of dunderheads and blundering asses the times

wouldn’t be so dangerous. And the times would be very different too, if

all you knaves had got a bit of conscience between the lot of you.’ And

I just walked away with the apothecary; and not a drop of drink did any

of them get.”

“Is that all?” asked the steward.

“Why, heart alive! isn’t it enough?”

_THE SELF-SACRIFICING RABBIT._

BY “SHCHEDRÌN” (SALTYKÒV).

[Illustration]

One day, a rabbit incurred the displeasure of a wolf. You see, he was

running along not far from the wolf’s lair, and the wolf saw him, and

called out: “Little bunny! Stop a minute, dear!” But the rabbit, instead

of stopping, ran on faster than ever. So the wolf, with just three

bounds, caught him, and said—

“Because you did not stop when I first spoke, this is the sentence I

pronounce: I condemn you to death by dismemberment. But, as I have dined

to-day, and my wife has dined, and we have stored up food enough to last

us five days, you sit down under this bush and wait your turn. Then

perhaps—ha! ha! ha!—I will pardon you!”

So the rabbit sat on his haunches under the bush, and never moved. He

thought of only one thing—how many days, how many hours would pass

before he must die. He looked towards the lair, and saw the glittering

eyes of the wolf watching him. And sometimes it was still worse; the

wolf and his wife would come out into the field, and stroll up and down

close by him. They would look at him, and the wolf would say something

to his wife in wolf language, then they would burst out laughing, “Ha!

ha! ha!...” And all the little wolf-cubs would come with them, and run

up to him in play, rub their heads against him, gnash their teeth....

And the poor rabbit’s heart fluttered and bounded.

Never had he loved life so well as now. He was a highly respectable

rabbit, and had chosen for a bride the daughter of a widowed

lady-rabbit. At the moment when the wolf caught him by the neck, he was

just running to his betrothed.

And now she, his betrothed, would wait, and think, “My squint-eyed one

has forsaken me!” Or perhaps—perhaps she has waited—waited ... and loved

another, ... and ... Or it may be ... she, too, ... playing, poor child,

among the bushes, caught by a wolf!...

Tears almost choked the poor fellow at this thought. “And this is the

end of all my warrens in the air! I, that was about to marry, had bought

the samovar already, looked forward to the time when I should drink tea

with sugar in it with my young wife,—and now, instead, what has befallen

me!... How many hours now till death?”...

One night he fell asleep where he sat. He dreamed that the wolf had

appointed him his special commissioner, and while he was absent,

performing his duties, the wolf paid visits to his lady-rabbit....

Suddenly he felt some one touching his side; he awoke, and saw the

brother of his betrothed.

“Your bride is dying,” said he. “She heard of your misfortune, and sank

at once under the blow. Her one thought now is, ‘Must I die thus, and

not say farewell to my beloved?’”

At these words the condemned one felt as though his heart would burst.

Oh, why! How had he deserved his bitter fate? He had lived honestly, he

had never stirred up revolutions, had never gone about with firearms, he

had attended to his business—and must he die for that? Death! Oh, think

what that word means! And not he alone must die, but she too, his little

grey maiden-rabbit, whose only crime was that she had loved him, her

squint-eyed one, with all her heart! Oh, if he could, how he would fly

to her, his little grey love, how he would clasp his fore-paws behind

her ears, and caress her, and stroke her little head!

“Let us escape,” said the messenger.

At these words the condemned one was for a moment as if transformed. He

shrank up altogether, and laid his ears along his back. He was just

ready to spring, and leave not a trace behind. But at that moment he

glanced at the wolf’s lair. The rabbit heart throbbed with anguish.

“I can’t,” he said; “the wolf has not given me permission.”

All this time the wolf was looking on and listening, and whispering

softly in wolf language with the she-wolf. No doubt they were praising

the rabbit’s noble-mindedness.

“Let us escape,” said the messenger once more.

“I can’t,” repeated the condemned.

“What treason are you muttering there?” suddenly snarled the wolf.

The rabbits stood as petrified. Now the messenger was lost too. To

incite a prisoner to flight—is that permitted? Ah! the little grey

maiden-rabbit will lose both lover and brother; the wolf and the

she-wolf will tear them both in pieces.

When the rabbits came to their senses, the wolf and the she-wolf were

gnashing their teeth before them, and in the darkness their eyes shone

like lamps.

“Your Excellency, it was nothing: we were just talking; ... a neighbour

came to visit me,” stammered the condemned, half dead with terror.

“Nothing! I dare say! I know you! Butter won’t melt in your mouths!

Speak the truth. What is it all about?”

“It’s this way, your Excellency,” interposed the bride’s brother. “My

sister, his betrothed, is dying, and asks, may he not come to say

farewell to her?”

“H’m! It’s right that a bride should love her betrothed,” said the

she-wolf. “That means that they will have a lot of little ones, and

there will be more food for wolves. The wolf and I love each other, and

we have a lot of cubs. Ever so many are grown up, and now we have four

little ones. Wolf! wolf! shall we let him go to take leave of his

betrothed?”

“But we were to have eaten him the day after to-morrow——”

“I will come back, your Excellency. I’ll go like a flash; I—indeed....

Oh, as God is holy, I’ll come back!” hurriedly exclaimed the condemned.

And, in order to convince the wolf that he _could_ move like a flash, he

sprang up with such agility that even the wolf looked at him admiringly,

and thought—

“Ah! if only my soldiers were like that.”

And the she-wolf became quite sad, and said—

“See that, now! A rabbit, and how he loves his she-rabbit.”

There was nothing for it; the wolf consented to let the rabbit go on

_parole_ with the stipulation that he should return exactly at the

appointed time. And he kept the bride’s brother as hostage.

“If you are not back the day after to-morrow by six in the morning,” he

said, “I’ll eat him instead of you; then if you come I’ll eat you too;

perhaps, though, I’ll—ha! ha!—pardon you!”

The squint-eyed one darted off like the arrow from the bow. The very

earth quivered as he ran. If a mountain barred his way, he simply dashed

at it; if a river, he never stopped to look for a ford, but swam

straight across; if a marsh, he sprang from tuft to tuft of grass. Not

easy work! To get right across country, and go to the bath, and be

married (“I will certainly be married!” he kept repeating to himself),

and get back in time for the wolfs breakfast....

Even the birds wondered at his swiftness, and remarked—

“Yes, the _Moscow Gazette_ says that rabbits have no souls, only a kind

of vapour, and there it goes.”

At last he arrived. Tongue cannot speak, neither can pen write the

rapture of that meeting. The little grey maiden-rabbit forgot her

sickness at the sight of her beloved. She stood up on her hind paws, put

a drum upon her head, and with her fore-paws beat out the “Cavalier

March”; she had been practising it as a surprise for her betrothed. And

the widowed lady-rabbit completely lost her head with joy; she thought

no place good enough for her future son-in-law to sit in, no food good

enough to give him. Then the aunts and cousins and neighbours came

running from all sides, overjoyed to see the bridegroom, and perhaps,

too, to taste the good cheer.

The bridegroom alone was not like himself. While still embracing his

betrothed, he suddenly exclaimed—

“I must go to the bath, and then be married at once.”

“Why should you be in such a hurry?” asked the mother rabbit, smiling.

“I must go back. The wolf only gave me leave of absence for one day.”

Then he told them all, and his bitter tears flowed as he spoke. It was

hard to go, and yet he must not stay. He had given his word, and to a

rabbit his word is law. And all the aunts and cousins declared with one

voice: “Thou speakest truth, oh squint-eyed one. Once given, the spoken

word is holy. Never in all our tribe was it known that a rabbit was

false to his word!”

A tale is soon told, but a rabbit’s life flies faster still. In the

morning they greeted the squint-eyed one, and before evening came he

parted from his young wife.

“Assuredly the wolf will eat me,” he said. “Therefore be thou faithful

to me. And if children shall be born to thee, educate them strictly;

best of all, apprentice them in a circus; there they will be taught not

only to beat the drum, but also to shoot peas from a pop-gun.”

Then suddenly, as though lost in thought, he added, remembering the

wolf—

“It may be, though, that the wolf will—ha! ha!—pardon me!”

And that was the last of him they saw.

* * * * *

Meantime, while the squint-eyed one was making merry and getting

married, great misfortunes were happening in the tract of country which

divided him from the wolfs lair. In one place heavy rains had fallen, so

that the river, which the rabbit swam across so easily the day before,

overflowed and inundated ten versts of ground. In another place King

Aaron declared war against King Nikìta, and a battle was pitched right

in the rabbit’s path. In a third place the cholera appeared, so that

quarantine was established for a hundred versts round. And, besides all

that, wolves, foxes, owls—they seemed to lie in wait at every step.

The squint-eyed one was prudent; he had so calculated his time as to

leave himself three hours extra; but when one hindrance after another

beset him his heart sank. He ran without stopping all the evening, half

the night; the stones cut his feet, the fur on his sides hung in ragged

tufts, torn by the thorny branches, a mist covered his eyes, blood and

foam fell from his mouth,—and still he had so far to go! And his friend,

the hostage, haunted him constantly, as though alive before him. Now he

stands like a sentinel in front of the wolfs lair, thinking: “In so many

hours my dear brother-in-law will return to deliver me.”... When the

rabbit thought of that, he darted on yet faster. Mountains, valleys,

forests, marshes—it was all the same to him. Often he felt as though his

heart would break; then he would crush it down, by sheer force of will,

that fruitless emotion might not distract him from his great aim. He had

no time now for sorrow or tears: he must think of nothing but how to

tear his friend from the wolf’s jaws.

And now the day began to break. The owls and bats slipped into their

hiding-places; the air became chilly. Suddenly all grew silent, like

death. And still the squint-eyed one fled on and on, with the one

thought ever in his heart: “Shall I come too late to save my friend?”

The east grew red; first on the far horizon the clouds were faintly

tipped with fire; then it spread and spread, and suddenly—a flame. The

dew flashed on the grass, the birds awoke, the ants and worms and

beetles began to move, a light smoke rose from somewhere; through the

rye and oats a whisper seemed to pass—clearer, clearer.... But the

squint-eyed one saw nothing, heard nothing, only murmured to himself

again and again: “I have destroyed my friend,—destroyed my friend!”

At last, a hill! Beyond that was a marsh, and in the marsh the wolf’s

lair.... Too late, oh squint-eyed one, too late!...

With one last effort he put forth all his remaining strength, and

bounded to the top of the hill. But he could go no further; he was

sinking from exhaustion. And must he fail now?...

The wolf’s lair lay before him as on a map. Somewhere far off six

o’clock struck from a church steeple, and every stroke of the bell beat

like a hammer on the heart of the agonized creature. At the last stroke

the wolf rose from his lair, stretched himself, and wagged his tail for

pleasure. Then he went up to the hostage, seized him in his fore-paws,

and stuck the claws into his body, in order to tear him in two halves,

one for himself, the other for his wife. And the wolf-cubs surrounded

their father and mother, gnashing their teeth and looking on....

“I am here!—Here!” shrieked the squint-eyed one, like a hundred thousand

rabbits at once; and he flung himself down from the hill into the marsh.

And the wolf praised him.

“I see,” he said, “that a rabbit’s word can be trusted. And now, my

little dears, this is my command: Sit, both of you, under this bush, and

wait till I am ready, and afterwards I will ... ha! ha! ... pardon you!”

_CHOIR PRACTICE._

[Illustration]

BY

V. A. SLYEPTZÒV.

At about six in the evening the singers assembled at the choir-master’s

house. After rubbing their boots on the mat in the hall, they went into

the ante-room, which contained an old rickety sofa, a wardrobe, and a

fat chest of drawers. For want of room the out-of-door garments were

flung in a heap on the sofa or chest of drawers. Here, too, there was a

sort of mat on the floor, upon which the singers were expected to rub

their feet. At the door leading into the inner room stood the

choir-master himself—a man of about forty, of middle height, with an

expressive face and short-cropped whiskers. He stood in his

dressing-gown with a pipe in his hand, watching to see that the singers

rubbed their boots properly. In the inner room, on the table, burned one

tallow candle, dimly lighting up a large stove in the corner, a sofa, a

piano covered with music, a red wooden cheffonier, several chairs, and a

violin hanging on the wall. On the opposite wall hung a portrait of the

Metropolitan Filarèt, a clock, and a starched shirt-front. The room was

crowded and musty, smelling of stale tobacco, and when any one coughed,

the lack of resonance became noticeable. On entering the room the

singers bowed, blew their noses (we will not inquire how), and sat down

silently. They came in not all together, but in little groups; and every

time that the rubbing of boots and blowing of noses was heard in the

ante-room, the choir-master would ask—

“Now, are you all here?”

Then a voice would answer from the dark ante-room—

“Not yet, sir.”

“Trebles and altos, don’t come in; stop outside till your boots are

dry,” said the choir-master, meeting at the door a fresh crowd of boys.

The trebles and altos stopped outside, and instantly began playing

tricks. The tenors and basses either sat smoking or walked up and down

the room talking together softly.

“Now then!” said the choir-master; “are you all here?”

“All here, Ivàn Stepànych,”

“Koulìkov, give out Berioùzov’s _Credo_.”

The singers began coughing, straightening their neckties, jerking their

trousers, and otherwise preparing for their work. One of the tenors, who

served as assistant to the choir-master, handed round the music.

The boys, called in from the ante-room before they had had time to

finish their tricks, continued pinching each other and treading on each

other’s toes after their parts had been handed to them. The choir-master

scolded them incessantly, but it was evident that they had not much fear

of him.

“Now then! Make haste and begin! Get to your places!” said the

choir-master. “Koulìkov, have you tried through _The Gates of Mercy_

with the trebles?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the pale, curly-haired tenor. “Only I wanted to

speak to you about Pètka; I simply can’t do anything with him! He sings

so flat that there’s no bearing it. Indeed, he does nothing but put the

others out.”

“Pètka, how much more trouble am I to have with you? Take care, my boy;

I shall have to take you in hand soon!”

Pètka, a jolly-looking, sharp-eyed treble, put on a serious face, and

steadily perused his music.

“Place yourselves! Place yourselves!” shouted the choir-master, sitting

down to the piano. “Who’s that smelling of whiskey? Mirotvòretz, is that

you?—For shame!”

“It’s what I use to rub my feet, Ivàn Stepànych; I’ve caught cold, and I

was advised to rub them with spirits.”

“Caught cold, indeed! At the funeral yesterday, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m, so I see.... Your face looks drunk enough.”

“No, sir ... indeed....”

“There, there! Never mind! Gentlemen, you’re placed all wrong! Basses,

don’t you know you have to stand by the stove?”

The basses sullenly went across to the stove.

“And you, Pàvel Ivànych? One might as well talk to a baby as to you, for

all the notice you take!”

Pàvel Ivànych, a gloomy, unshaven, deep-bass singer, stared meditatively

at the ceiling.

“Pàvel Ivànych!”

“What?”

“What did I say to you?—And all you answer is, ‘What?’ Confound it all,

man, where’s your place?”

Pàvel Ivànych gazed meditatively at his music, and never moved.

“Ivàn Stepànych, Pètka’s hitting me,” whimpered an alto.

“Pètka!”

“Ivàn Stepànych, I didn’t——”

“Hold your tongue before I come and make you. Now, then!”

The choir-master struck several chords.

“Now listen! You all begin _piano_: ‘_I believe in one God the Father

Almighty_,’ ... recitative, you know; and mind every word is clear. The

basses must get their vowels out well.... Pàvel Ivànych! Where are you

looking?”

“I?”

“No, I, of course! What do you suppose I’m talking to you for? Oh! good

heavens, what a life! Well now, you begin piano; and, trebles, mind you

don’t drag! Do you hear? ‘_By whom all things were made!_’ All the parts

break up here! _Sforzando: ‘By whom all things!_’ ... D’you understand?

Pètka, look at me! ‘_And the third day He rose again, according to the

Scriptures._’... _Forte._ ‘_And sitteth on the right hand._’ ...

_Fortissimo._... Do you understand what it means? Do you? ‘_From thence

He shall come again with glory to judge both the quick and the

dead._’... Think what it means—the earth, the heavens, everything, going

to dust ... and the last trumpet,—lightning,—thunder,—everything

annihilated!... ‘_Whose kingdom shall have no end._’... At ‘end’ you

have another _diminuendo_, and let the voices die away. You have to

express all that great—how do you call it?—wisdom, and power, and

eternity, ... don’t you see? Basses lead. Bring out all the tone you

can; it wants to be like three hundred voices here! Tenors, change tone;

take the octave! Trebles and altos: tra-la-la-la-la.... Stop!”

The choir-master had got so absorbed in describing how the Creed ought

to be sung, that he had started up from the piano, and, imagining that

it was really being sung as he said, began gesticulating and excitedly

nudging the tenors, who edged away as far as they could. The basses,

meanwhile, were taking snuff indifferently, while the trebles and altos,

hiding their faces behind their music, were pinching each other and

giggling. At last the singing began in good earnest; they all coughed,

shuffled their feet, mumbled a little, and suddenly burst out in a roar:

“_I believe in one God the Father Almighty._”... The choir-master stood

in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, nodding

his head and beating time with his hand.

“Stop! Stop! Not that way!”

The singing broke off.

“What do you want to roar like bulls for? Basses! Pàvel Ivànych, what

did I say to you? Anybody would think you were gone daft! Koustòdiev,

where are you looking? And you a clerical![58] How can you behave so?”

Koustòdiev, a burly, red-eyed bass, with stubbly hair sticking up in

disorder, frowned at his music and made no answer.

“It’s no matter what one says to you people; you take not a bit of

notice. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourselves; you’re not children,

I should hope—you might have a little sense! Why, you’ve got children of

your own; it’s pardonable in them,” added the choir-master, pointing to

the trebles and looking reproachfully at the basses.

Koustòdiev muttered something inaudible.

“What? Now then, begin again! Remember what I said: recitative: and,

basses, don’t roar!—Don’t roar!” shrieked the choir-master when the

singers began once more: “_I believe._”...

“Pàvel Ivànych, what are you bellowing for? Do you want to frighten us

all?—Mìtka, don’t snuffle!”

“_Very God of Very God, begotten, not made._”...

“_Legato!_ Hold the note.... Break off! Basses, _crescendo_.... Ivàn

Pàvlovich, as loud as you can. ‘_By whom all things were made._’... What

do you stop for? Oh, dear, oh, dear; what _am_ I to do with you? Look

this way, I tell you; look this way! I didn’t tell you to look at _me_;

there’s nothing written on me!” cried the choir-master desperately,

tapping the music.

The singers looked at him in a languid, careless way, and he began to

lose his temper. Suddenly one of the trebles pulled another’s ear, which

instantly resulted in a quarrel.

“Ivàn Stepànych,” said one of the most troublesome, “I can’t sing with

Mìtka; he keeps on snuffling all the time.”

“Mìtka!”

“Yes, sir!”

“What are you doing?”

“I haven’t done nothing,” replied the injured alto.

“Nothing! I’ll give you what for, my lad! Come and stand over here; I

won’t put up with much nonsense, I can tell you! Oh, good Lord! what a

dog’s life! What do you come here for, if you please? To dance and sing

comic songs, eh? Oh, heavens, how much more of it?... Pètka, find my

pipe!”

Here the choir-master began tramping up and down the room, ruffling up

his hair in front. The trebles all scrambled to pick up the pipe, and,

of course, got fighting again; the rest of the choir broke into little

groups and talked.

“Confounded idiot!” muttered the stubbly-haired bass, rolling up a bit

of music-paper into a cigarette. “He’s a regular brute, that’s what he

is!”

In a corner sat two basses and a thin, consumptive tenor.

“I’ve sung through four services this blessed day,” one of the basses

was saying, “and I’m downright tired of it; my throat’s quite sore.

First I sang at the early service, then in another church at high mass,

then at vespers at the Holy Virgin’s church, and then at a funeral. I

got Kouznetzòv to come to the Holy Virgin’s, and we had a rare lark with

the deacon;—I told him we would! I tell you, that deacon won’t forget us

in a hurry—the way we put him out! When he started on one note, we got

on to another. You know, he always tries to take ‘_Give ear_’ as high as

he can, so as not to have to take the octave—his voice is fit for

nothing;—so when we started ‘_Glory be to Thee_’ a whole tone lower, he

was just done for. ‘_For ever and ev_——’ and there he stuck—couldn’t get

a word out for the life of him. And that scamp Kouznetzòv, there he

stood saying his prayers as if it wasn’t his doing a bit; bowing and

crossing himself, as pious as you please. I nearly died of laughing. Oh,

and what a rage the priest is in—my word! After service the deacon came

up to the chancel, and says he: ‘Wait a bit, my fine fellow; I’ll serve

you a trick.’... But that’s all nonsense. What can he do to him?”

“But what did the priest say?” asked the consumptive tenor.

“What’s it to him? He said, ‘I’m not going to take that deacon’s part.’

So you see, we can do as we like.”

“Get to your places; make haste,” interrupted the choir-master’s voice.

“Koulìkov! ‘_We sing to Thee._’ Trebles hold your tongues!”

The singers once more ranged themselves in order; the choir-master took

his place at the piano.

“Do—mi—la. _Pianissimo._ One!”

“_We sing to Thee, we bless_——”

“Stop! How many times am I to tell you? What are you doing? What sort of

thing do you call that? Now I ask you, what are you doing? Skvortzòv,

what are you doing?”

Skvortzòv meditated.

“What am I a-doin’? I’m a-singin’.”

“What are you singing?”

“Sing to Thee——”

“And I tell you that you’re hacking wood, not singing!”

Skvortzòv smiled.

“What’s there to laugh at? There’s nothing funny about it. Who’s the

first to ask for his salary? You. Eh—h—h—you clumsy sledge-hammers! How

many times have I told you? Tenors, don’t bawl, take your vowels

properly. ‘_Weeee siiiiing tooooo Theeeeeee!_’ You always make it sound

like, ‘_Wwwwe sssssssingg tttto Ththththee!_’ What sort of music do you

call that? Begin again. ‘_We give thanks to Thee._’ Tenors, just touch

the note and break off. Altos ought to ripple along like a brook.

Trebles, die away.”

At last they got into swing. The basses left off sledge-hammering, the

trebles died away, the altos rippled, the tenors “touched” their note

and broke off, and the choir-master accompanied. Suddenly, in the midst

of the singing, there resounded a smart box on the ear, given to one of

the altos for singing flat and not rippling properly, but that in no way

disturbed the music. The alto only blinked a little and went on singing.

[Illustration:

“AT LAST THEY GOT INTO SWING.”

]

“_And we worship Thee_,” roared the basses with the most ferocious faces

they could put on.

“_Oh-h-h Lo-o-rd_,” quavered the tenors, throwing back their heads and

wagging their voices as a dog wags its tail.

“_And wee-e-e wo-o-or-ship Th-ee-ee-ee_,” bellowed, like an ophicleide,

the stubbly-haired bass, savagely rolling the whites of his eyes and

looking ready to tear some one in pieces.

At this moment there was a knock at the door. The singing broke off

again.

“Who’s that?” shouted the choir-master, angry at being interrupted.

The deacon came in; a short, thick-set man of about forty-five, in a

long-tailed coat, and with whiskers completely surrounding his face,

after the fashion of anthropoid apes. He made a slow salute, and uttered

the conventional salutation: “My respects.”

“Ah, Vasìli Ivànych. Sit down, please. Won’t you have a pipe?” The

choir-master had suddenly become very amiable.

“Thank you, don’t trouble, I have cigars. I am disturbing you, am I

not?”

“No. We were just going through the old things, so as not to forget

them. Sit down Vasìli Ivànych. Will you have some tea? I’ll order it at

once, in a minute.”

The choir-master half-opened a door leading into a bedroom, thrust in

his head and said softly to his wife, who was lying on the bed—

“Vasìli Ivànych has come. Think yourself. You know we can’t——”

“Yes, you’ll be inviting twenty people here next, and giving them tea,”

answered his wife.

“I didn’t invite him; he came.”

“There, there; get along with you.”

“Well, but, really, you might——”

“Shut up!”

“All right, I won’t, I won’t really.”

And the choir-master returned into the sitting-room, and sat down beside

the deacon.

“Well, Vasìli Ivànych, and how are you getting on?”

“Pretty middling, thank you,” answered the deacon, coughing.

“Won’t you really have a pipe?”

“No, thanks.”

“Ah, I forgot, you don’t smoke pipes; and I have no cigars. Dear, dear,

what a pity! And is your wife pretty well, and the children?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“That’s all right.”

“And how’s the reverend father?”

“The father? Oh, as usual, you know.”

“Not well?”

“He doesn’t like this place; there’s such a lot of work, and at his age

it’s hard.”

“Yes, yes, he’s getting on. Yes, it’s a pity.”

Silence.

“Won’t you have some whiskey?” suddenly asked the choir-master.

“Whiskey? Oh, no, thank you, no.”

“As you like. I’ll send for it, if you wish.”

“Why should you—trouble?”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. I’ll send, then.”

The deacon coughed again, much as if a crumb had got into his throat,

and carefully examined the ceiling.

“Fèkla!” called the choir-master rather timidly.

There was no answer.

Several minutes of embarrassing silence followed. The tenors and basses

cautiously seated themselves round the walls, while in the bedroom the

furniture creaked angrily; the boys whispered in the ante-room. The

choir-master sat looking at the door, but, seeing that the servant did

not come, muttered to himself: “What’s come to her?” and went into the

bedroom. There another whispered conversation began.

“Can’t you understand?” exclaimed the choir-master, trying to impress

upon his wife the necessity of sending for whiskey.

“There’s nothing to understand. I know you’re always glad of a chance to

get drunk with anybody. What’s the use of trying to fool me?”

“Sh-sh! How am I trying to fool you? Can’t you see that my reputation

may suffer?”

“From the drink? Yes, I should think so. Be off with you—be off!”

“Now, really, Màshenka, do be reasonable.”

Presently the choir-master returned, and after him came the

maid-servant, carrying a tray with a decanter and a plate of cucumbers.

“Ah-h! Put it down here, my girl. Vasìli Ivànych, the first glass is

yours.”

“Won’t you drink too?”

“You first; you are a guest.”

“Properly, the master of the house ought to begin,” said the deacon,

modestly.

“No, no, you first, please. I’ll drink afterwards.”

“Well, if you will have it so....”

The deacon drained his glass, drew a long breath, snuffed at a bit of

bread, and began upon a cucumber.

“Yes, this music is a wonderful thing,” began the choir-master, pouring

himself out some whiskey. “It’s a thing there’s no comprehending. Won’t

you have another glass?”

“H’m. Well, I’m afraid it’ll be too much.”

“Oh, Vasìli Ivànych, no!”

“Well, then, you begin.”

And the former ceremony was gone through again.

“Your health!”

“Yours!”

The deacon drank another glassful and gazed meditatively at the

cucumbers. The poor singers looked very miserable. The stubbly-haired

bass stared gloomily at the decanter; the tenors tried to distract their

minds from temptation by talking together, but the conversation halted.

“Koulìkov!” said one.

“Well?”

“What time is mass to-morrow?”

“How should I know? What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.”

Another tenor was remarking to a friend—

“Look here, when you write out music, you ought to put the sharps

bigger. I always get wrong.”

“All right.”

“I shall go home and get to bed,” murmured one of the basses, yawning.

The boys in the ante-room had started some game there in the dark.

After the third glass the choir-master became sentimental and embraced

the deacon.

* * * * *

The whiskey was nearly all drunk—only two glassfuls were left. The

choir-master, holding on to the table with one hand and leaning against

the deacon, tried to snuff the candle, but could not. The deacon had got

upon his dignity, and would listen to nothing.

“Vasìli Ivànych! Vasìli Ivànych!” cried the choir-master, frowning.

“No, I won’t, then!” answered the irate deacon.

“Won’t you, my friend? Oho! Very well, you remember that. I’ll remind

you of it; I’ll remind you!” said the choir-master, threatening him with

something unknown. Then, seeing that his menaces had no effect, he

suddenly became affectionate. The deacon, pacified, drank another glass.

“There now! There’s a good fellow! Kiss me, old man, and let’s be

friends. You and I are both ... psalm singers.... We ought to be

friends ... eh?” said the choir-master, tapping the deacon on the chest.

“I’m not a common sort of man either, I can tell you; you needn’t mind

my looking a bit queer.... Just see what a wife I’ve got, eh? She’s a

civic councillor’s daughter. D’you understand that?”

“’Course I do ... ’tisn’t a syntax ... nothing much to understand.”

“Ah! I tell you that woman’s an angel. I’m not worthy of her. I feel

myself I’m not. I’ve held an officer’s rank for fifteen years, and I’ve

got a medal belonging to me, but all the same I’m not worth her little

finger.”

An angry murmur came from the bedroom.

“There! D’you hear? She’s angry. She doesn’t like to be praised before

people. She’s modest. I tell you I never saw any one so modest....

You’ll hardly believe it.... Why, sometimes, when we’re alone——”

The sounds from the bedroom grew more threatening.

“Ivàn Stepànych, Missis is angry,” said the servant, suddenly entering.

“Sh—sh! All right, all right, I won’t,” whispered the frightened

husband. “I’m very sorry. I won’t....”

The deacon got up to go home.

“Vasìli Ivànych! Where are you going? Listen, my dear fellow.” He took

the deacon mysteriously into a corner.

“What should I listen to? That’s all nonsense!”

“No, no. I’ll send for some more. One of the boys’ll run for it quick.

She won’t know. Secretly; d’you see? There’s no difficulty. Own

money.... Just see there,” and the choir-master pulled a rouble note out

of his waistcoat pocket.

“Only do as I tell you! It’s all according to law.... D’you see?”

The deacon nodded his head and laid down his hat. At this the

choir-master clapped him on the shoulder and winked significantly.

“Pètia!” he whispered, going into the ante-room, and shaking a

slumbering treble. “Pètia, make haste! Like a flash of lightning, you

know—to the publichouse. Off with you!”

Five minutes later the choir-master was pouring out a sixth glass for

the deacon. It was only then that he suddenly remembered the tenors and

basses, who, not able to endure this sight any longer, had in sheer

desperation made up their minds to go home.

“Come along, come along! What are you afraid of?” said the choir-master,

with a faint attempt to keep up his dignity in the eyes of his

subordinates. The singers started, and one after another came up to the

table. Koustòdiev took a glass, looked at it, held it up to the light,

and suddenly, as if struck with a new idea, turned it upside down into

his mouth, without eating anything.

“Pàvel Ivànovich, and you?”

Pàvel Ivànovich modestly declined.

“Why?”

“Thanks, I won’t take any.”

“Stuff and nonsense! Why not?”

“N—no, I ... really——”

“Rubbish!”

“No; you must excuse me. I have taken a pledge.”

“When?”

“More than a month ago.”

“As you like.”

Pàvel Ivànovich reddened and sat down; the other singers began to make

fun of him. The choir-master, meanwhile, had worked himself up to such a

condition of temerity that he no longer took any notice of the ominous

symptoms of an approaching domestic storm which were plainly audible

from the bedroom. By the time the second pint of spirit was finished the

singers had arrived at the stage of walking unceremoniously up and down

the room, and had begun to talk so loud that their conversation sounded

remarkably like quarrelling. The room grew close and stifling, the

candle began to flare, the deacon’s cigar-smoke got into the people’s

eyes. The choir-master, holding the deacon by his coat-button, assured

him for the tenth time (_à propos_ of nothing) that his wife was an

angel, and that but for her he should have come to utter ruin. The

conversation then jumped with extraordinary rapidity back to music, and

the deacon affirmed that C sharp major and G minor are the same, and

that the whole thing depends upon how you breathe, and finally proved to

demonstration that “all these composers” ought long ago to have been

kicked down stairs. Notwithstanding all this, the choir-master once more

went into the ante-room, waked Pètia, and sent him for a third pint.

“No, no; wait a bit! Just hear what I tell you!” yelled the

choir-master, holding the deacon by the coat.

“All that’s idle talk.”

“No, no; I’ll prove it,” shrieked the choir-master. “See now! Where is

my music got to? Ah, there now, I forgot to send for the supper ...

Fèkla!”

The angry face of the maid-servant appeared at the door.

“Fèkla!” said the choir-master in a stern voice, trying hard not to

stagger; “go and fetch some cucumbers.”

“Missis told me not.”

“Then you won’t go?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then you’re a pig. I’ll go myself.”

“Go then! Missis’ll give you what for.”

However, after thinking it over, the choir-master decided not to go, and

only shouted at her:

“Be off with you! Yah! Scandalmonger!”

[Illustration:

“THE DEACON WENT HOME.”

]

The servant went away. Presently a third pint was brought in and the

basses and tenors once more crowded round the decanter. Suddenly the

choir-master quite unexpectedly sat down at the piano, struck a few

chords, and shouted: “Get to your places!” The sleepy boys came in from

the ante-room, and the whole choir stood in a crowd together.

“See, the light is dying,

See, the time is flying....”[59]

yelled the choir-master, hammering unmercifully on the keys.

“The lasses went to the fields to play,

Among the grasses and flowers gay.”[59]

bellowed the choir.

“Oh, my bonny blue kirtle!”[59]

howled the tipsy deacon, swinging his legs under the table.

“In the name of law and order!” shrieked the choir-master. “Basses, out

with your tone! _Crescendo! Crescendo!_”

* * * * *

At about eleven o’clock at night the deacon was hunting for his galoshes

in the ante-room. For a long time he could not find them; at last he

stuck his foot into somebody’s cap, which happened to be lying on the

floor, and went home.

THE EAGLE

AS

MECÆNAS.

[Illustration]

A FABLE.

BY

“SHCHEDRÌN”

(SALTYKÒV).

A great deal is written by various poets about Eagles; and always in

praise of them. The Eagle has invariably a form of indescribable beauty,

piercing vision, and a majestic flight. In fact, he does not fly like

other birds, but “sails” or “soars” through the air; moreover, he can

gaze upon the sun and battle with the thunders. Some writers speak of

the magnanimity of his soul. For instance, if you want to write an ode

in praise of a policeman, it is quite essential to compare him to an

Eagle. Thus: “Like the majestic Eagle, Police-sergeant No. So-and-so

looked on the suspected person, seized him, heard his explanation, and

magnanimously pardoned him.”

I, personally, long cherished a belief in these panegyrics. I used to

think: After all, it really is a grand idea! “Seized him and ...

pardoned!” Pardoned! That was what really fascinated me. Whom did he

pardon? A mouse! A miserable mouse! And then I would rush off to some

one of my poetical friends to tell him of this new act of magnanimity on

the part of the Eagle. And my poetical friend would strike an attitude,

breathe hard for a moment, and then ... would become affected with the

sea-sickness of versification.

One day, though, the idea occurred to me: What did the Eagle “pardon” in

the mouse? All that the mouse had done was to run across the road on its

own private business; and the Eagle saw it, swooped, squeezed it half to

death, and ... pardoned it! Why in the world did the Eagle pardon the

mouse and not the mouse the Eagle?

Well, I began to look about me and take notice of things; and the more I

saw, the more muddled I got. There certainly was something askew about

the whole business. In the first place, it is evident that the Eagle

does not catch mice for the purpose of pardoning them. In the next

place, even if the Eagle did pardon the mouse, I cannot help thinking

that it would have been still better if he had taken no interest in its

affairs at all. And, finally, in the third place, granted he is an

Eagle—an Arch-eagle for that matter—all the same he’s a bird. Indeed, he

is so essentially a bird that, even for a policeman, a comparison with

him can be considered complimentary only in virtue of a

misunderstanding.

My present opinion concerning Eagles is as follows:—Eagles are

Eagles—and that is the long and short of the matter. They are simply

carnivora, birds of prey; but, it is true, they have this justification:

that Nature herself made them anti-vegetarians. As they are, moreover,

powerful, long-sighted, agile, and merciless, it is perfectly natural

that, whenever they appear, the entire feathered kingdom does its best

to hide itself away. This is simply the effect of terror, and not at all

of admiration, as the poets maintain. Eagles habitually live in solitary

and inaccessible places; never exchange bread-and-salt with any one;[60]

but live by robbery; and, when not engaged in burgling, go to sleep.

There turned up, however, a certain Eagle who grew sick of living in

solitude. So one day he said to his mate: “It’s a fearful bore to live

in this fashion, _tête-à-tête_; if one does nothing but gaze at the sun

the whole day long, it muddles one’s head.”

He set to work to meditate. The more he thought about it, the more it

seemed to him that it would be very nice to live as the landed

proprietors used to live in the old days. He could get a whole suite of

servants and be as happy as the day is long. The rooks would provide him

with scandal; the parrot would turn upside down and do tricks; the

magpie would cook his porridge; the robins would sing songs in praise of

him; the owls and night-jars would serve as watchmen and sentinels; and

the hawks and falcons would bring him food. For himself he would keep no

speciality but bloodthirstiness.

He thought and thought; and at last he made up his mind. One day he

called a hawk, a kite, and a falcon, and said to them—

“Collect for me a staff of servants, such as the old landlords used to

have; they will amuse me, and I will keep them in order. That will be

pleasant for me and good for them.”

[Illustration:

“THEY DROVE IN A WHOLE FLIGHT OF ROOKS.”

]

So the birds of prey flew off in all directions to fulfil the Eagle’s

commands. No one can say they dawdled over their business. First of all

they drove in a whole flight of rooks, registered their names, and gave

them out passports. The rook, you see, is a fertile bird, and puts up

with everything. Its best quality is that it admirably represents the

peasant class; and everybody knows that if once you have got the

peasants settled, all the rest is a matter of detail and quite easily

managed. And they certainly managed beautifully. The corn-crakes and

mud-suckers were trained for an orchestra; the parrots were dressed up

for acrobats; the white-feathered magpie, being a notorious thief, was

intrusted with the keys of the treasury; and the owls and night-jars

were put on duty as sentinels. In a word, the whole thing was arranged

in a manner that would have done credit to any nobleman’s establishment.

Even the cuckoo was not forgotten; employment was found for her as

fortune-teller to the female Eagle; and a foundling hospital was

instituted for orphan cuckoos.

But before the whole arrangement was fairly in working order the

managing directors realised that something was wanting. For a long time

they could not think what it could be; but at last they remembered that

in all high-class establishments Science and Art are supposed to be

represented, and they had made no provision for either the one or the

other. Three birds especially felt themselves aggrieved by this

omission—the robin, the woodpecker, and the nightingale.

The robin was a smart little soul and had practised whistling since his

fledgling days. He had received his earliest education in an

ecclesiastical school; then he had served as regimental clerk; and as

soon as he had learned the rules of correct punctuation he had begun to

edit, without preliminary censorship, a newspaper: _The Forest Gazette_.

But, somehow or other, he could never get it right: whenever he touched

upon a subject, it turned out to be taboo; whenever he refrained from

mentioning a subject, that subject particularly ought to have been

mentioned; and for all these mistakes he used to get hard knocks on his

poor little head. So at last he decided: “I will enter the service of

the Eagle; all I shall have to do will be to sing his praises every

morning; and no one will punish me for that.”

The thrush was a modest and studious person, who led a strictly solitary

life; he had no acquaintances (many even believed him to be a drunkard,

like all very learned persons), but would sit for whole days alone upon

a fir-branch, cramming up information. He managed to plod through a

perfect desert of historical investigations: “The Ancestral Records of a

Bogie,” “Was the old Woman who rode on a Broomstick married?” “What Sex

should be ascribed to Witches in the Register-Papers?” and so forth.

But, however hard the poor bird crammed, he could not find a publisher

for his pamphlets. At last it occurred to him too: “I’ll engage myself

as Court-Historiographer to the Eagle; perhaps he will print my

investigations in rook’s dung!”

As for the nightingale, he couldn’t complain of the cruelty of fate; he

sang so exquisitely that not only the mighty fir-trees, but even the

Moscow shopkeepers were quite touched when they heard him. All the world

adored him; all the world held its breath to listen when he poured out

torrents of divine song from among the branches of some silent grove.

But the nightingale was ambitious beyond measure, and desperately given

to falling in love. He was not content with making the forest ring with

his wild melodies, or filling sad hearts with the harmony of sound ...

he kept on thinking how the Eagle would hang round his neck a shining

chain of ants’ eggs, and decorate his breast with live beetles, and how

the female Eagle would appoint secret meetings with him by moonlight....

In short, all three birds gave the falcon no peace till he undertook to

speak on their behalf.

The Eagle listened attentively to the falcon’s assurances of the

necessity of encouraging science and art; but did not quite understand.

He sat sharpening his claws, and his eyes flashed back the sunlight like

polished gems. He had never seen a newspaper in his life; he had never

taken the slightest interest in either witches or the old woman who rode

on a broomstick; and about the nightingale he had only heard that it was

a little bit of a bird not worth soiling one’s beak over.

“I daresay you don’t even know that Buonaparte is dead,” said the

falcon.

“Who was Buonaparte?”

“There you are! And you certainly _ought_ to know about that. Supposing

visitors come and begin a polite conversation; they’ll say: ‘In

Buonparte’s days so-and-so happened’; and you’ll just have to sit and

blink your eyes. That won’t do.”

They called in the owl as adviser, and she agreed with the falcon that

science and art must be introduced into the establishment; for they

amuse Eagles, and it does ordinary mortals no harm to enjoy them from a

distance either. Knowledge is light, and ignorance is darkness. Any fool

knows how to eat and sleep; but just try and work out a problem; take

the one about the flock of geese, for instance, that’s a very different

matter. In the old days the clever landowners understood that; they knew

that forewarned was forearmed; they were sharp enough to see which side

their bread was buttered. Just take the case of the finch: all the

learning he has is how to draw water in a little bucket, and yet see

what a high price he fetches just for that one trick! “I,” concluded the

owl, “can see in the dark, and I am called wise for that; now, you can

stare at the sun for hours together without ever blinking; and all

people say about you is: ‘That Eagle’s a bit of a blockhead.’”

“Well, I have no objection to science,” said the Eagle, rather

snappishly.

No sooner said than done. On the next day the “Golden Age” began in the

Eagle’s establishment. The starlings set to work to learn by heart the

hymn: “Let our youth be fed with science”; the corn-crakes and

mud-suckers began practising the trumpet; the parrots invented new

tricks. A new tax was laid upon the rooks, to be called “Public

Instruction Tax.” A _Corps des Cadets_ was founded for fledgling falcons

and vultures; and an Academy of Science for owls. They even went the

length of buying a farthing alphabet apiece for the baby rooks. Last but

not least, the oldest patriarch among the starlings was appointed

poet-laureate, with the honorary title of “Vasìli Kirìlych

Trediakòvsky,”[61] and commanded to prepare for a public competition

with the nightingale, to be held on the next morning.

At last the great day dawned. The newly-elected flunkeys were admitted

into the presence of the Eagle, and the tournament of arts began.

The most successful competitor was the robin. Instead of reciting his

compliments, he read aloud an article, so clear and simple that even the

Eagle fancied he understood. The robin said that people ought to live in

happiness and prosperity; and the Eagle remarked, “Exactly so.” He said

that if he could make his paper sell properly he would be quite

indifferent to all other questions; and the Eagle repeated, “Exactly

so.” He said that the life of a servant is preferable to that of a

master; for the master has many responsibilities, whereas the servant

lives under his master’s protection, free from care; and the Eagle again

repeated, “Exactly so!” He said that, in the days when he kept a

conscience, he could not get a pair of trousers to wear, but, now that

he had got rid of his conscience, he was in the habit of putting on two

pair at once; and the Eagle once more repeated, “Exactly so!”

At last the Eagle began to get bored, and snappishly commanded: “The

next one.”

The woodpecker began by tracing the pedigree of the Eagle back to the

Sun, and the Eagle confirmed his statements with the remark: “That’s

just what I used to hear from poor papa.” According to the woodpecker,

the Sun had three children: two sons, the Lion and the Eagle; and one

daughter, the Shark. The Shark misconducted herself; and her father, as

a punishment, sent her to rule the depths of ocean; the Lion turned

aside from his father’s way, and the father made him ruler of the

deserts; but the Eagle was a son after his father’s heart, and the

father kept him nearest to himself and gave to him the realms of air for

a kingdom. But before the poor woodpecker had got through even the prosy

introduction to his history, the Eagle called out impatiently: “The next

one! The next one!”

[Illustration]

Then the nightingale began his song, and made a mess of it from the very

first note. He sang of the joy of the flunkey hearing that God has sent

him a master; he sang of the magnanimity of Eagles, and of their

liberality in tipping flunkeys.... But, however desperately he tried to

pitch his voice in the true flunkey tone, the art that dwelt within his

breast somehow or other would not be controlled. He himself was a

flunkey from beak to tail (he had even got hold, somehow, of a

second-hand white cravat, and had ruffled up the feathers on his little

head into a hairdresser’s curl), but his _art_ refused to be confined

within flunkeyish bounds, and kept on bursting forth in spite of all his

efforts. It wasn’t any use for him to sing; he could not give

satisfaction anyhow.

“What’s that booby droning about?” cried the Eagle; “call Trediakòvsky!”

Vasìli Kirìlych was quite in his element. He chose just the same

toadyish subjects, but gave so clear an exposition of them that the

Eagle kept on all the time repeating—

“Exactly so! Exactly so!”

When the competition was over, the Eagle hung upon Trediakòvsky’s neck a

chain of ants’ eggs, and flashed his eyes at the nightingale,

exclaiming—

“Take away that scoundrel!”

Thus ended the nightingale’s, ambitious dreams. He was quickly hustled

into a hen-coop and sold out of the way to the tavern “Parting Friends,”

where, to this day, he fills with sweet poison the hearts of tipsy

“meteors.”

Nevertheless, the work of public instruction was not abandoned. The

fledgling vultures and falcons attended the gymnasium regularly; the

Academy of Science began to publish a dictionary, and got half through

the letter A; the woodpecker finished the tenth volume of “The History

of Bogies.” The robin, however, kept very quiet. From the first day he

had felt an instinctive conviction that all this educational rage would

come to a speedy and grievous end; and apparently his presentiments were

well founded.

The troubles began with a grave mistake on the part of the owl and

falcon, who had accepted the management of the work of education: they

took it into their heads to teach the Eagle himself to read and write.

They taught him upon the easy and agreeable phonetic system; but,

notwithstanding all their efforts, after a whole year’s training,

instead of “Eagle,” he signed his name “Agull”; the result of which was

that he could not get a single respectable financier to accept his

bonds. The owl and falcon also made another great mistake: like all

pedagogues, they never gave their pupil any peace. Every minute of the

day the owl would follow at the poor Eagle’s heels, screaming out,

“B-b-b-b; Z-z-z; D-d-d; K-k-k;” while the falcon as incessantly dinned

into his ears that it is impossible to divide the prey one has caught

without knowing the first four rules of arithmetic.

“Suppose you have stolen ten goslings, of which you have given two to

the police-inspector’s clerk, and eaten one yourself, how many have you

left?” asked the falcon, in a reproachful voice.

The Eagle was not able to work this problem, so he remained silent; but

anger against the falcon burned in his heart more and more fiercely with

every day.

All this resulted in a condition of general tension, which was at once

taken advantage of by intriguing adventurers. The ringleader of the

conspiracy was the kite; he enticed over the cuckoo, who took to

whispering in the ear of the female Eagle—

“They are simply killing our dear master with their learning.”

Whereupon the female Eagle began ironically calling her mate “Wiseacre!

Wiseacre!” The conspirators next turned their energies to the business

of arousing “evil passions” in the vulture.

One morning, just at dawn, and while the Eagle was still sleepily

rubbing his eyes, the owl, as usual, slipped behind him and began her

eternal buzzing in his ear—

“V-v-v.... Z-z-z.... R-r-r——”

“Oh! go away, you awful bore!” murmured the Eagle, wearily.

“Be so good, your worship, as to repeat B-b-b.... K-k-k.... M-m-m——”

“I tell you, for the second time, go away!”

“P-p-p.... H-h-h.... Sh-sh-sh——”

“For the third time, go away!”

“S-s-s.... F-f-f.... J-j-j——”

With the quickness of lightning the Eagle turned upon the owl and tore

her in pieces. An hour later the falcon, knowing nothing of what had

happened, returned from the morning hunt.

“Here is a problem for you,” said he. “We have brought back 60 lbs. of

game. Now, suppose we divide the game into two equal parts, one half for

you and the other half for the remainder of the establishment, how much

of the 60 lbs. will fall to your share?”

“All of it,” replied the Eagle.

“No, no; answer properly,” persisted the falcon. “If it had been “all,”

I shouldn’t have asked you!”

It was not the first time that he had set his pupil such problems; but

on this occasion the tone in which the question was asked struck the

Eagle as quite intolerable. All his blood boiled at the thought that,

when he said “all,” his slave should dare to answer “not all.” Now, it

is a well-known peculiarity of Eagles that, when their blood begins to

boil, they become incapable of distinguishing pedagogical disquisitions

from revolution. The Eagle acted accordingly.

Nevertheless, after finishing up the falcon, the Eagle announced—

“The Scientific ’Cademy is to stop as it is.”

The choir of starlings once more repeated their hymn, “Let our youth be

fed with science.” But it was already plain to every one that the

“Golden Age” was drawing to its close. In the near future darkness and

ignorance were at hand, with their inevitable train—civil war and

general confusion.

The disturbances began with the competition of two candidates for the

post of the defunct falcon—the vulture and the kite. As the attention of

the two rivals was absorbed exclusively in their personal interest, the

affairs of the establishment were to some extent shoved aside and

gradually fell into a neglected condition. In a month there remained not

a trace of the “Golden Age.” The starlings had grown lazy; the

corn-crakes played all out of tune; the white-feathered magpie took to

stealing right and left; and the rooks got so hopelessly behindhand with

the taxes that there was nothing for it but an “_execution_.”[62]

Matters went so far that the servants began to bring the Eagle and his

mate bad meat for dinner.

In order to exculpate themselves from responsibility in all this

mismanagement, the vulture and the kite, for the moment, played into

each other’s claws, and threw all the blame upon education.

“Science,” said they, “is undoubtedly a useful thing, but only under the

right conditions. Our ancestors,” said they, “managed to live without

any science; and we can do the same.”

And, to prove that all the troubles came from science, they set to work

to hunt up conspiracies, and particularly conspiracies in which some

book, if only a prayer-book, was concerned. There began a perfect rain

of searches, police-investigations, and trials.

“Drop it!” suddenly rang through the aerial heights.

It was the Eagle who said that. The process of education broke off

short. Throughout the whole establishment there reigned such dead

silence that one could even hear the whispers of slander creeping along

the earth.

The first victim of the new tendency of affairs was the woodpecker.

Indeed, indeed the poor bird was not guilty; but he knew how to read and

write, and that was quite sufficient ground for an accusation.

“Do you know the rules of punctuation?”

“Not only the rules of ordinary punctuation, but even those for extra

signs, such as quotation marks, hyphens, parentheses; on my conscience,

I always put them right.”

“And can you distinguish the feminine from the masculine gender?”

“I can. I should not make a mistake, even by night.”

And that was all. The woodpecker was chained and placed in solitary

confinement for life in a hollow tree. On the next day, being devoured

by ants, he gave up the ghost in his prison. His sorrows were hardly

over when the thunderbolt fell on the Academy of Science.

The owls and night-jars, however, defended themselves sturdily; they did

not wish to be evicted from their cosy free quarters. They said that

they followed scientific pursuits, not in order to popularise science,

but to protect it from the evil eye. But the kite instantly demolished

their arguments by asking—

“What’s the use of having science at all?”

This being an unexpected question, they could give no answer. They were

then separated and sold to market-gardeners, who killed and stuffed them

and set them up in their nurseries for scarecrows. The farthing

alphabets were next taken away from the baby rooks, and mashed up in a

mortar, to form a homogeneous mass of pulp, which was then made into

playing-cards.

Matters grew worse and worse. After the owls and the night-jars came the

turn of the starlings; then the corn-crakes, parrots, and finches. Even

the deaf heath-cock was suspected of “a certain way of thinking,” on the

ground that he held his tongue all day and slept all night.

The staff of the establishment gradually dwindled away. At last there

was no one left to serve the Eagle and his mate but the vulture and the

kite. In the background there remained, of course, a crowd of rooks, who

multiplied at a pace that was perfectly disgraceful; and the faster they

multiplied the more their arrears of taxes accumulated.

Finally the kite and vulture, having no one else to intrigue against (of

course you don’t count the vulgar rooks), began to intrigue one against

the other; and all on the ground of science. The vulture denounced the

kite as reading the prayer-book in secret; and the kite invented against

the vulture the slander that he kept the “New Song-Book” hidden in a

hollow tree.

The Eagle began to grow uneasy.

But just at this moment an extraordinary thing happened. Finding

themselves left without supervision, the rooks suddenly raised the

question—

“By the by, what did the farthing alphabet say about all this?”

And, without stopping to remember clearly what was said, they all left

their nests in a body and flew away.

The Eagle started off to pursue them, but it was no use; the indolent

life he had been living had so enervated him that he could hardly flap

his wings.

He returned to his mate, and uttered these words of wisdom—

“Be this a lesson to Eagles!”

But in what exactly the “lesson” consisted—whether it were that

education is injurious to Eagles, or that Eagles are injurious to

education, or, finally, that each is injurious to the other—that he

never explained.

THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.

-----

Footnote 1:

In Russia marriages cannot be solemnised during the weeks appointed by

the Greek Church as fasts.

Footnote 2:

The district of St. Petersburg in which stands the terminus of the

Moscow railway.

Footnote 3:

The north-east district of St. Petersburg.

Footnote 4:

Literally, “Omelette” or “Custard.”

Footnote 5:

Government clerk.

Footnote 6:

“Bring some bread, my man.”

Footnote 7:

Son of a dog.

Footnote 8:

Pomòy—dish-water.

Footnote 9:

Yarỳzhnik—rake, roué.

Footnote 10:

Perepryèlyi—stewed too long.

Footnote 11:

Dỳrka—any little hole or gap.

Footnote 12:

“The Island,” in the singular, means the Vasìlyevsky Island.

Footnote 13:

The pious ejaculation used, with the sign of the cross, by strict

members of the Orthodox Greek Church, on starting upon any enterprise,

great or small.

Footnote 14:

Interval of one month between the Second and Third Pictures.

Footnote 15:

Warden’s Council.

Footnote 16:

Gentleman of the Emperor’s Bedchamber.

Footnote 17:

Sledge-driver.

Footnote 18:

Assistant to a village priest in Russia.

Footnote 19:

Long coat worn by Russian peasants.

Footnote 20:

Metropolitan.

Footnote 21:

In provincial places in Russia it is customary to use an abacus in

adding up accounts.

Footnote 22:

Colloquial for “the wife of Lòpàtin.”

Footnote 23:

The Patronymic without the Christian name of the person addressed is a

common colloquialism.

Footnote 24:

A Russian proverb.

Footnote 25:

Russian hymn.

Footnote 26:

Russian sacred songs.

Footnote 27:

Special canticle on a Saint’s day.

Footnote 28:

In the Greek Church the psalms are divided up into a kind of rosary.

Footnote 29:

Literally “Pig’s ear.”

Footnote 30:

And I, at what risks and perils, go and waste myself expending saliva!

What folly!

Footnote 31:

Extorsion des _nédoymkàs_, une espèce de peine corporelle, en vigueur

en Russie, surtout dans le cas où le paysan, par suite d’une mauvaise

récolte, n’a pas de quoi payer les impôts.—_Chenapan._[63]

Footnote 32:

Oh, my poor mother! Oh, my sister, wasting her youth in the vain hope

of a husband!

Footnote 33:

“The law, good gracious, we have fifteen volumes of law!”

Footnote 34:

1853.

Footnote 35:

Mr. Chenapan has again made rather a muddle of his Russian. “Zvon

pobièdy, razdavaïsia!” (“Bells of victory, ring out!”) is the opening

line of one of Derzhàvin’s pompous, servile, and essentially jingoish

odes on the victories of Catherine II.—_Translator._

Footnote 36:

“This is _our_ way of giving tips.”

Footnote 37:

A well-known French actress of that time in St. Petersburg.—AUTHOR.

Footnote 38:

Evidently a mistake; there are no municipal counsellors in

Russia.—AUTHOR.

Footnote 39:

“Now you’ll see me at my business!”

Footnote 40:

The St. Petersburg Arcade.

Footnote 41:

A quotation from Griboyèdov.

Footnote 42:

The observation of a certain editor.

Footnote 43:

The Islands in the Delta of the Neva are recognised places for fast

amusements. The Arcadia is a well-known music-hall there.

Footnote 44:

Village syndic.

Footnote 45:

Landlord and Serf-owner (corruption of the ancient word “boyàrin”).

Footnote 46:

The village bell-ringer.

Footnote 47:

Bishop.

Footnote 48:

District Police Inspector.

Footnote 49:

Inferior police official, who collects taxes.

Footnote 50:

The peasant is satirizing the Russian “Passport regulations,”

according to which it is a penal offence for a householder to take in

any inmate who cannot show police certificates.

Footnote 51:

Colloquial for Mikhail.

Footnote 52:

Principal town of any province.

Footnote 53:

A famous group of statuary in Moscow.

Footnote 54:

A slang term for the gendarmes; probably because their uniforms are

“deeply, darkly, beautifully blue,” like the waters of the

Mediterranean.—TRANSLATOR.

Footnote 55:

Equipage with three horses.

Footnote 56:

Member of the Committee of Inquiry.

Footnote 57:

Contemptuous diminutive of Lipàtkin.

Footnote 58:

Of the clerical class.

Footnote 59:

Fragments of popular songs.

Footnote 60:

The popular emblem of hospitality.

Footnote 61:

A flunkeyish poetaster at the Court of Catherine II.

Footnote 62:

“_Exekoùtzia_,” official term for wholesale flogging, in case of

mutiny, or inability to pay taxes, among the peasantry.

Footnote 63:

Mr. Chenapan has made a slight mistake. _Nedoìmka_ is the Russian word

for debt; but he is so far right that “recovery of nedoìmki” is the

expression officially used for the extortion of taxes from a starving

population, and that such extortion is very often accomplished by

means of “une espèce de peine corporelle.”—_Translator._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PROSPECTUS.

[Illustration]

LIBRARY

OF

HUMOUR.

London: Walter Scott, Ltd., Paternoster Square.

_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION_

[Illustration:

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.

]

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LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

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Each volume deals with the humour of the literature of a particular

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volumes as representative as possible in each case of the particular

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* * * * *

Illustrations to the different volumes by DUDLEY HARDY, H. R. MILLAR, C.

E. BROCK, ARTURO FALDI, PAUL FRÉNZENY, OLIVER PAQUE, etc.

_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE.)

[Illustration:

DOCTOR DECHAR: “AND YET YOU DECLARED THE OPERATION MUST BE DONE?”

DOCTOR RAPPASS: “OF COURSE. YOU MUST ALWAYS OPERATE.”

]

THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE.

Selected and Translated, with Introduction and Biographical Index, by

ELIZABETH LEE. With 70 Illustrations by PAUL FRÉNZENY.

“From Villon to Paul Verlaine, from dateless _fabliaux_ to

newspapers fresh from the kiosk, we have a tremendous range of

selections.”—_Birmingham Daily Gazette._

[Illustration]

“The work of translation has been well done, and the book sparkles from

beginning to end.”—_Globe._

“Miss Lee has compiled a very entertaining volume, traversing the whole

world of French literature from the thirteenth to the nineteenth

centuries gleaning from novelists, dramatists, poets, essayists, writers

of _fabliaux_, newspapers. The result is a very readable and amusing

volume.”—_Birmingham Post._

“A most agreeable and entertaining volume.”—_Scottish Leader._

“There is not a dull page in the volume from beginning to end, is a

piece of praise too often lavished on a book by the indolent,

unconscientious, or over tender-hearted reviewer; nevertheless, at the

risk of ranking ourselves with him, we will make that assertion

concerning these specimens of ‘The Humour of France.’”—_St. James’s

Gazette._

_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.)

[Illustration:

“HE WAS TOO FOND OF DELIVERING LONG SPEECHES AT THE ALEHOUSE.”

]

[Illustration:

“SIT THE GOOD TOWNSPEOPLE OF A SUMMER EVENING.”

]

THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.

Selected and Translated, with Introduction and Biographical Index, by

HANS MÜLLER-CASENOV. With 60 Illustrations by C. E. BROCK.

“It is an excellently representative volume, comprising selections from

all the best writers in the humoristic vein, whether high or low German.

Of course Heinrich Heine figures largely, and in addition are capital

extracts from Hauff, Zschokke, Ludwig Tieck, Chamisso, Fritz Reuter, and

others.”—_Daily Telegraph._

“Can be recommended to all in quest of amusing literature. The

illustrations are delightful.”—_Literary World._

“The book throws eloquent and entertaining side-lights upon the

characteristics of the German people. The text is amply and aptly

illustrated.”—_Manchester Examiner._

“One of the brightest books that has come to this country.”—_Boston

(U.S.A.) Herald._

“The reader may feel assured of having quite a treasury of novelty in

each volume of this beautiful series as it appears.”—_Liverpool

Mercury._

_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.)

[Illustration:

PULCINELLA’S DUEL.

]

[Illustration]

THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.

Selected and Translated, with Introduction, Biographical Index, and

Notes, by A. WERNER. With 55 Illustrations by ARTURO FALDI.

“Modern Italian light literature is very rich, and those who cannot read

the language easily, and yet would like to obtain some notion of what

contemporary Italian writers are doing, cannot do better than turn to

these pages.... Will reveal to English readers a whole new world of

literature.”—_Athenæum._

“The book contains some delightful modern short stories and sketches. We

may particularly mention those by Verga, Capuana, and De

Amicis.”—_Literary World._

“Most readers will think that it affords ample proof of the abundance of

genuine wit in the Italian literature of the nineteenth century. It has

plenty of capital stories, and the man who is not tickled by Capuana’s

‘Rival Earthquakes,’ or Castelnuovo’s ‘Theorem of Pythagoras,’ can have

little sense of the ridiculous.”—_Morning Post._

_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA.)

[Illustration:

“SHE SHRILLY OBSERVES, THOMAS JEFFERSON, COME RIGHT INTO THE HOUSE

THIS MINIT.”

]

[Illustration:

“KOSCIUSKO AND I FROLICKED AROUND.”

]

THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA.

Selected by JAMES BARR. With an Introduction and a Comprehensive

Biographical Index of American Humorists. Eighty Illustrations by

CHARLES E. BROCK.

“Certainly these 462 pages of queer stories and good illustrations are

as exceptional for amusing narration as they are for excellence of

printing and binding.”—_Liverpool Mercury._

“Sparkles and ripples with good things.”—_Manchester Examiner._

“Mr. Barr has made his volume as representative as it could well be,

and it would be difficult to mention any American writer having a

claim to be considered a humorist, who has not had that claim

recognised.”—_Glasgow Herald._

“The selection is judiciously made, and displays a catholic taste....

The book is a really representative collection of humour, and what

passes for humour, in America.”—_The Academy._

_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.)

[Illustration:

“AND HE WAS QUITE SATISFIED.”

]

THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.

Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by A. WERNER. With numerous

Illustrations by DUDLEY HARDY.

“Apart from the quality of humour, one is much struck by the evidence

that in Holland during the present day there is a genial literature, of

which we know nothing at all.”—_Bookman._

“There are some quite irresistible pieces in the volume. The

illustrations are excellent, and the whole style in which the book is

produced reflects credit on the publishers.”—_British Weekly._

“There are really good things in the book—things of quaint or pretty

fancy, things of strong or subtle satire.... Even Mark Twain, in ‘Tom

Sawyer’ and ‘Huck Finn’ does not show a finer knowledge of the humours

of imaginative boyhood than is displayed by Conrad van der Liede in ‘My

Hero.’”—_Daily Chronicle._

“The new humour has grown wearisomely old, but here is something to

again stimulate.”—_The Graphic._

“Interesting sketches of life and manners.”—_Daily News._

“The pictures are numerous and good, the dramatic literature of the

people is well represented, and the work altogether is so truly

excellent that it will always be in season.”—_Liverpool Mercury._

“Those who wish to compare the humour of several countries must needs

have in their possession such a rich storehouse as this is of the Humour

of Holland.”—_Irish Times._

[Illustration:

“KAPBLOK, THE BUTCHER’S MAN.”

]

_SPECIMEN._ (FROM THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND.)

[Illustration]

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_Cloth Elegant, Large Crown 8vo, Price 3/6 per vol._

_VOLUMES ALREADY ISSUED._

THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by

Elizabeth Lee. With numerous Illustrations by Paul Frénzeny.

THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by

Hans Müller-Casenov. With numerous Illustrations by C. E. Brock.

THE HUMOUR OF ITALY. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by A.

Werner. With 50 Illustrations and a Frontispiece by Arturo Faldi.

THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA. Selected with a copious Biographical Index of

American Humorists, by James Barr.

THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by

A. Werner. With numerous Illustrations by Dudley Hardy.

THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND. Selected by D. J. O’Donoghue. With numerous

Illustrations by Oliver Paque.

THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by S.

Taylor. With numerous Illustrations by H. R. Millar.

THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA. Translated, with Notes, by E. L. Boole, and an

Introduction by Stepniak. With 50 Illustrations by Paul Frénzeny.

THE HUMOUR OF JAPAN. Translated, with an Introduction, by A. M. With

Illustrations by George Bigot (from Drawings made in Japan). [_In

preparation._

London: WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.

_SPECIMEN._ (FROM THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN.)

[Illustration:

PEPITA AND THE YOUNG PRIEST.

]

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

spelling.

2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end

of the last chapter.

4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

5. Encosed upside down text in ⓇCIRCLED LATIN CAPITAL LETTER RⓇ.