And his family isn’t far behind. His daughters have a habit of sewing onions onto the hats of guests whom they “outrank socially,” and should these outranked guests have had a drink or two too many, the girls take a piece of chalk and write “Donkey” or “Fool” in thick letters on their backs. Last winter, Trifon Semyonovich’s son Mitya, a retired lieutenant, even managed to outdo his papa. He and Karpushka smeared the gates of a retired soldier with tar because the soldier wouldn’t give Mitya a wolf cub he wanted, and because the soldier had warned his daughters against accepting cakes and candy from the lieutenant.

And after this you want to call Trifon Semyonovich, Trifon Semyonovich and not something worse?

7 A member of a sinister private army devoted to the service of Czar Ivan the Terrible.

À L’AMÉRICAINE

I,experiencing the urgent whim to enter a thoroughly lawful marriage, and realizing that no marriage can be entered into without a female of the species, have the honor and pleasure of asking all young maidens and widows to cast a favorable eye on the following:

First and foremost, I am a man. Needless to say, this is a point of some importance to the ladies. I stand one yard and twenty-seven inches tall. I am young. Indeed, I am as far from middle age as a flock of sandpipers would be from Novosibirsk on St. Peter’s Day. I am of noble lineage. I might not be much to look at, but am not that bad either, so much so that I have been repeatedly mistaken for handsome, albeit only on moonless nights. My eyes are hazel. My cheeks (alas!) are undimpled. Two of my back teeth are rotten. I have a hard time assuming graceful manners, but no one should doubt the strength of my muscles. (My glove size is 7¾.) I have nothing to my name but my poor though wellborn parents. I do, however, have an illustrious future before me. I am a devotee of pretty women in general and parlor maids in particular. I believe in everything. I am a man of letters—so much so that I am above shedding tears when rejection slips come pouring in. I see a novel in my future, whose heroine (a wanton but exquisite beauty) will be modeled on my wife-to-be. I sleep twelve hours a night. I eat mountains of food. I drink vodka only in company. I have a commendable circle of friends: I know two literati, a ditty-writer, and two men about town who have dedicated their lives to the betterment of mankind by writing articles for The Russian Gazette. My favorite poets are Pushkarev and, at times, myself. I am amorous, but not in the least jealous. I wish to marry for reasons known only to myself and my creditors.