I will not be hoodwinked!” I added, issuing another warning, along with a ban that prohibited her from appearing before me for a period of three months.

But these measures did not work. By the second year of our marriage my wife had not one cadet, but a number of them. Seeing her unrepentant, and not wishing to share with colleagues, I issued a third warning and sent her, along with the little bonus, home to her parents so she could be under their watchful eye, where she is to this day.

Her parents receive monthly royalties for her upkeep.

THE TURNIP

A Folktale

Once upon a time a little old man and his wife lived happily, and a son was born to them whom they named Pierre. Pierre had long ears and instead of a head a fat turnip. He grew up to be a big, strapping fellow. The little old man tried pulling him up by the ears so something might come of him. He pulled and pulled, but to no avail. The little old man called his wife. The wife grabbed hold of the little old man and the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled, but still to no avail. The wife called in a princess, who happened to be her aunt.

The aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled. But to no avail. The aunt called over a general, who happened to be her godfather.

The godfather grabbed hold of the aunt, the aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, but still to no avail. The little old man was at his wit’s end. He happened to have a daughter too, whom he gave to a rich merchant. He called in the merchant, who had many hundred-ruble bills to his name.

The merchant grabbed hold of the godfather, the godfather grabbed hold of the aunt, the aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled, and finally managed to give the turnip all the pull it needed.

And the turnip became a great state councilor.

EASTER GREETINGS

An anteroom. A card table in the corner. On it are a government-issued sheet of gray paper, a pen, an inkpot, and some blotting paper. The usher is pacing up and down the hall, his mind on food and drink. On his well-fed countenance covetousness is written, and in his pockets the fruits of extortion jingle. At ten o’clock a little man—or an individual, as His Excellency likes to say—comes in from the street. The individual slips into the hall, tiptoes over to the table, picks up the pen timidly and with trembling hand, and begins writing his forgettable name on the gray sheet of paper. He writes slowly, with gravity and feeling, as if it were a calligraphic exercise. Lightly, very lightly, he dips the pen into the inkpot, four times, five—he is afraid the ink will spatter. A smudge and all will be lost! (There had been a smudge once, but that is a long story.) The individual does not end his signature with a flourish—he wouldn’t dare. He draws the r’s in painstaking detail. He finishes his calligraphic daub and peers at it, checking for errors, and not finding any, wipes the sweat from his brow.

“A happy Easter to you!” he says to the usher, and the individual’s dyed mustache brushes three times against the porter’s prickly one as they exchange the ceremonial triple kiss.