And he persecutes, and persecutes me. But I know, my friend, that you are no more than England’s catspaw. The English are great politicians. They are everywhere with their tricks. And all the world knows that when England takes a pinch it is France who sneezes.

The 25th

TO-DAY the Grand Inquisitor came into my room again, but as soon as I heard his steps in the distance I hid under a chair. Seeing I wasn’t there he began calling me. At first he shouted: “Poprishchin.” I didn’t breathe a word. He went on: “Axenti Ivanov! Titular Councillor! Gentleman!” I remained silent. “Ferdinand VIII, King of Spain!” I was on the point of poking out my head, but then I thought: “No, my good fellow, I’m not going to be taken in this way. I know your tricks: You will be dripping cold water on my head again.” But he had caught sight of me, and drove me from under the chair with a stick. It does hurt terribly, that damned stick does. However, my new discovery made up for everything: I have found out that every cock has got a Spain, and that it is situated under his feathers not far from his tail. The Grand Inquisitor went away, however, very angry, and threatening to have me punished. But I pay no attention to his impotent malice, knowing that he is no more than a machine, a tool in the hands of England.

HT 34 EHT MI.YRAE 349

NO, I have not the strength to endure it any longer. Oh Lord! the things they are doing to me! They pour cold water on my head! They will not hear, they will not look, they will not listen to me! What have I done to them? Why do they torment me? What do they want of a miserable wretch like me? What can I give them? I have nothing. I have not the strength, I cannot endure these agonies. My head is on fire and everything is whirling round. Save me, take me away! Give me a troika of horses swift as the wind! Take your seat, my coachman; ring out, my bell; dart upwards, my steeds, and carry me away from this world! On, on, to where we can see nothing, nothing! There is the sky whirling before me; a star twinkling in the distance; the forest rushes by with dark trees and the moon; blue mist lies spread beneath my feet; a chord resounds in the mind; on one side stretches the sea, on the other, Italy; and yonder, Russian huts can be seen. Is that my home in the blue distance? Is it my mother sitting before the window? Mother, save your poor son! Drop a tear on his poor aching head! See how they are tormenting him. Press your poor child to your breast! There is no place for him in the world! They drive him out! Mother, dear, have pity on your sick little boy! . . . And do you know that the Bey of Algiers has a wen just under his nose?

NEVSKI PROSPECT

A TALE

THERE is nothing to compare with the Nevski Prospect, at any rate in St. Petersburg; for that city it comprises everything. The Beauty of the capital!—what splendours does this street not know? I’m certain that not one of the town’s pale and clerkish inhabitants would exchange the Nevski Prospect for any earthly blessing. Not only the possessor of twenty-five years, a handsome moustache and an amazingly tailored frock-coat, but even the man whose chin sprouts white hairs and whose head is as smooth as a silver dish, waxes enthusiastic about the Nevski Prospect. And the ladies! Oh, to the ladies the Nevski Prospect is an even greater delight! But who is not delighted with it? You hardly enter the Nevski Prospect, when you catch the fragrance of the purest sauntering. Even if you had some important essential business, you would probably forget it all as soon as you stepped into the street. This is the one single place where people do not show themselves because they have to, where they are not driven by necessity and the commercial interest which embraces the whole of St. Petersburg.