Chapter VIII: Act II: Scene I (6)

“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]

Nay, even the houses are not new—at least, the staircases of them. We have already several times mentioned in our columns that on the north side of the river, in the house of the merchant Loukyànov, the bottom steps of the wooden stairs are rotten, fallen in, and a constant danger to his servant, the soldier’s widow Afimia Skapidàrova, who is often obliged to carry water or firewood up this staircase. At last our warnings have proved true; yesterday evening, at half-past eight o’clock, Afimia Skapidàrova fell through the staircase with a soup tureen and broke her leg. We do not know whether Loukyànov will mend his staircase now; Russians are always wise when it is too late; but the victim of this Russian has perhaps already been carried to the hospital. In the same way, we still persist in maintaining that the dvorniks, who clean the wooden pavements of the Wyborg district of this town, have no right to splash the legs of the passers-by, but should shovel the mud into heaps, as is done in Europe, where boots are cleaned,” &c.

“But how’s this?” said I, looking in stupefaction at my neighbour; “I never heard of such a thing!”

“How so?”

“Why, my dear sir, instead of pitying Ivan Matvyèich, they pity the crocodile!”

“And why not? A mere animal—a _mammal_—and we have pity even for it! Which way are we behind Europe after that, eh? They’re very tender to crocodiles in Europe too, you know. Ha, ha, ha!”

And my neighbour buried himself in his papers and spoke not another word.

I put the _Vòlos_ and _Listòk_ into my pocket and took, in addition to them, all the back numbers I could find, for the evening recreation of Ivan Matvyèich, and, although it was still early, slipped away out of the Department in order to visit the Passage, to look on, if only from the distance, at what was taking place there, and to overhear various expressions of opinions and views. I was convinced that there would be a tremendous crowd, and drew up the collar of my cloak to hide my face, for somehow I felt a little bit ashamed—so unaccustomed are we to publicity. But I feel that I have no right to dilate upon my personal, prosaic feelings in presence of so extraordinary and original an event.

THE STEAM-CHICKEN.

(_A Story fit to be printed only in the Christmas holidays._)[42]

BY GLYEB USPÈNSKY.

Although I cannot protest against the above observation, which very truly characterises this little sketch, I am bound to remark that the title—“A Story”—given to this production by the editor in question, is entirely out of character with both the subject under discussion and the manner in which that subject is treated. The sketch contains no coherent story at all, nor is it founded upon any story in real life. A group of people were simply discussing “_the soul_,” and one of the disputants, a poultry-farmer on a journey, delivered a kind of lecture upon the subject, bringing forward some very interesting facts concerning gallinaceous psychology. That is all.

This is how it happened:—

I got tired of waiting for my train in the stuffy little general waiting-hole of the most microscopic station on the whole N—— Railway, so I went out to sit and smoke on the platform. It was getting on for eleven o’clock on a warm, dark autumn night. The only light on the platform came from three small paraffin lamps, placed at long distances from one another, and giving so little light that I was quite unable to see clearly the group of dark human silhouettes collected on the platform close to me, and, like myself, waiting for the train. I could see several black shadows, but it was impossible to form an idea what sort of people they were. The conversation that they were carrying on together was, however, distinctly audible in the motionless silence of the dusky, sultry night.

Unfortunately, this conversation was of a most gloomy character. It referred to an unusual misfortune which had happened early that morning at a neighbouring station, and had been a subject of general conversation along the whole line. A certain publichouse keeper, well known to every one connected with the railway, had thrown himself in front of the train. He had been a confirmed drunkard for some years, and had arrived at absolute beggary.

“You see, mates, towards the last he went off his head altogether,” said one of the black silhouettes, whom, from the glittering of his badge when he moved, one could guess to be the railway watchman. “He tried to do it five times before ... but he always got frightened. He’d run up to the train and then begin to yell.... The train would come thundering along, and he’d just scream with terror, and yet he’d run on, throwing up his hands. ‘Ah!—ah!—ah!—ah!’ and yet he’d run at it.... He was mortally scared, and yet he couldn’t let it alone!... God always saved him; the good Christian people didn’t want to let him die; ... they’d catch him and take him home by force; ... they put him in the hospital.... Well, it seems this time he was too sharp for them.”...

“Did he call out? Did any one hear?”

“They said afterwards that somebody yelled like a wild thing. They say they heard something crying and screaming.... But, you see, it was night-time; it was quite dark that’s plain!”...

“The devil’s will, you mean. In such business as that, it’s the devil that’s lord and master, not God!” said a voice from the group of silhouettes.

“True! true!” muttered several voices; and a short silence followed.

The conversation was an unpleasant one; the subject under discussion was gloomy and fearful, and the people seemed ill at ease in talking of it. But maybe for that very reason they were unable to free themselves from the haunting idea, and enter into the ordinary small talk of chance-met passengers. Unpleasant as it was to think and talk of a suicide, the conversation about it started afresh.

“They do say it was all his wife’s doing that he got like that; he took to drinking because of her.”

“Did the silly fellow care more for his wife than his soul?”

“Ah! but then, you know, ... she ran away from him—and he got lonely without her—and so——”

“Ran away! Why, the devil take her, let her run away as far as she likes; there are plenty of women to be got!”

“Plenty of women, but only one soul!”

“He’ll have to answer for his soul to God in the next world!”...

“Ah! the soul! the soul!”... said the watchman, with a sigh; and the conversation would probably have broken off if the young assistant-stationmaster had not suddenly appeared beside the group. No one had heard him come up on account of his indiarubber galoshes.

He was a very cheerful young man; he had just got his situation, just got married, just put on his new uniform, and naturally felt that now he was “decently set up.” He stopped, as he was sauntering past, to smoke a cigarette with the group, and, for want of anything to do, cheerfully threw in a word.

“What’s the talk about? What soul?”

He had accidentally caught, in passing, the word “soul”; his thoughts were altogether at the other end of the earth from any stray conversations; he was going merrily home to his young wife and his boiling samovar, and was altogether thoroughly contented with himself.

“Why, we were just talking about the misfortune that happened to-day ... about the publican.”...

“Well, what about him?”

He struck a match on his coat-sleeve, hardly listening to what was said.

“We were just talking, sir; that’s all.... You see, the poor fellow’s lost his immortal soul.”

“What soul?”

The cigarette lighted suddenly, and scattered little sparks all round.

“What soul? What nonsense are you talking?”

“Why! your honour! his soul!”

“The man was simply a drunkard! It’s all nonsense!”

“But what about the next world?”

“What’s the use of talking rubbish? Don’t get drunk, and you won’t be run over.... The deuce knows what they’ll say next—a soul!”

His young wife and his boiling new samovar occupied his thoughts so completely that they made his whole conversation merry, and gave it a tone of “all fiddle-sticks!” Having uttered his few remarks in a cheerful manner, he walked away, also in a cheerful manner, along the platform, and flung back at the group of silhouettes one last word—

“Twaddle!”

He then disappeared in the darkness, humming “Strièlochka.”

“No, it isn’t twaddle!” rather decidedly remarked one of the silhouettes; and his dark figure moved forwards, hiding all the other silhouettes. “It’s anything but twaddle—a soul is!”

The appearance of the cheerful stationmaster had somehow driven away the gloomy thoughts of the group, and, not finding at the moment any pleasant theme for conversation, they did not support the unknown orator by any positive announcement at all. But their silence in no way put him out of countenance, and he continued, in an impressive tone of voice—

“Twaddle! It’s easy for him to talk!... The man simply doesn’t believe in God—he’s a Nihilist, that’s what he is!... If he believed in God he wouldn’t dare to talk like that.... I used to be no better than a dead log myself until I got conviction.... What can any of us understand? We know how to say our prayers; we know how to put candles before the altar; but what do we know about the wisdom of the Lord?... And yet, if the Lord God should call me now to the lot, first of a fish and then of a hen, and should give me a talent and allow me to enter into it, I tell you, mates, I understand all about it now!... Yes! There is a soul, mates! there is indeed!... That’s what I say—it’s true; it’s not twaddle!”

The audience had at first some difficulty in understanding what this poultry-farmer was talking about. The most incompatible images and ideas had got so mixed up together in his speech—God, the soul, a fish’s lot, a hen’s lot—all this was too hard for the silhouettes to digest at once. Somebody tried how it would do to make one of the stock remarks of the Russian citizen in difficulties: “Of course it is!”—one of those phrases which will serve for an answer at a pinch, but have no meaning in particular (though they are constantly used in commerce); but he said it in a timid whisper, and relapsed into silence.

The silence was, however, of short duration. A pleasanter topic had been started, and the conversation grew lively.

“I don’t quite understand—allow me to ask, do hens have souls?” slowly and deliberately inquired one of the silhouettes, with the evident intention of starting a long discussion. “Kindly explain to me on what you base that opinion. A soul is bound to be Christian; and there is surely nothing said in the Holy Scriptures about hens’ and fishes’ souls.”...

“I grant you there is really nothing about it in the Scriptures; but I, you see me, Selivèrstov, poultry-farmer—_I_ tell you—yes! You can believe me or not, as you like, but I assure you that when I get to really understand the affairs of fishes, and especially of poultry, then I began to believe in the Almighty Creator. Up till then I was just a dead log! You can think what you like. Yes!...”