 Section 12 of Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoevsky. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Crocodile. An Extraordinary Incident. Part II The venerable Timothy Semyonich met me rather nervously, as though somewhat embarrassed. He led me to his tiny study and shut the door carefully, that the children may not hinder us, he added, with evident uneasiness. There he made me sit down on a chair by the writing-table, sat down himself in an easy chair, wrapped round him the skirts of his old wadded dressing-gown, and assumed an official and even severe air, in readiness for anything, though he was not my chief, nor Ivan Matveitch's, and had hitherto been reckoned as a colleague and even a friend. First of all, he said, take note that I am not a person in authority, but just such a subordinate official as you and Ivan Matveitch. I have nothing to do with it, and do not intend to mix myself up in the affair. I was surprised to find that he apparently knew all about it already. In spite of that I told him the whole story over in detail. I spoke with positive excitement, for I was at that moment fulfilling the obligations of a true friend. He listened without special surprise, but with evident signs of suspicion. Only fancy, he said. I always believed that this would be sure to happen to him. Why, Timofi Samyanich, it is a very unusual incident in itself. I admit, but Ivan Matveitch's whole career in the service was leading up to this end. He was flighty, conceited indeed. It was always progress and ideas of all sorts, and this is what progress brings people to. But this is a most unusual incident and cannot possibly serve as a general rule for all progressives. Yes, indeed it can. You see, it's the effect of overeducation. I assure you, for overeducation leads people to poke their noses into all sorts of places, especially where they're not invited. Though perhaps you know best. He added as though offended, I am an old man and not of much education. I began as a soldier's son, and this year has been the jubilee of my service. Oh no, Timofi Samyanich, not at all. On the contrary, Ivan Matveitch is eager for your advice. He is eager for your guidance. He implores it, so to say, with tears. So to say with tears? Those are crocodile's tears, and one cannot quite believe in them. Tell me, what possessed him to want to go abroad? And how could he afford to go? Why, he has no private means. He had saved the money from his last bonus. I answered plaintively, he only wanted to go for three months to Switzerland, to the land of William Tell. William Tell? He wanted to meet the spring at Naples, to see the museums, the customs, the animals. The animals? I think it was simply from pride. What animals? Animals indeed, haven't we animals enough? We have museums, menageries, camels. There are bears quite close to Petersburg, and here he's got inside a crocodile himself. Oh, come, Timofi Samyanich, this man is in trouble. The man appeals to you as a friend, as to an older relation, craves for advice, and you reproach him. Have pity at least on the unfortunate Elena Ivanovna. You are speaking of his wife, a charming little lady, said Timofi Samyanich, visibly softening and taking a pinch of snuff with relish. Particularly prepossessing, and so plump, and always putting her pretty little head on one side. Very agreeable. Andrei Asapich was speaking of her only the other day. Speaking of her? Yes, and in very flattering terms, such a bust, he said, such eyes, such hair, a sugar plum, he said, not a lady, and then he laughed. He is still a young man, of course. Timofi Samyanich blew his nose with a loud noise. And yet, young though he is, what a career he is making for himself. That's quite a different thing, Timofi Samyanich. Of course, of course. Well, what do you say then, Timofi Samyanich? Why, what can I do? Give advice, guidance as a man of experience, a relative. What are we to do? What steps are we to take? Go to the authorities, and... To the authorities, certainly not, Timofi Samyanich replied hurriedly. If you ask my advice, you had better above all hush the matter up and act, so to speak, as a private person. It is a suspicious incident, quite unheard of, unheard of above all. There is no precedent for it, and it is far from creditable. And so, discretion above all, let him lie there a bit. We must wait and see. But how can we wait and see, Timofi Samyanich? What if he is stifled there? Why should he be? I think you told me that he made himself fairly comfortable there. I told him the whole story over again. Timofi Samyanich pondered. He said, twisting his snuff-box in his hands. To my mind it's really a good thing he should lie there a bit, instead of going abroad. Let him reflect at his leisure. Of course, he mustn't be stifled, and so he must take measures to preserve his health, avoiding a cough, for instance, and so on. And as for the German, it's my personal opinion he is within his rights, and even more so than the other side, because it was the other party who got into his crocodile without asking permission, and not he who got into Ivan Matvić's crocodile without asking permission. Though, so far as I recollect, the latter has no crocodile, and a crocodile is private property, and so it is impossible to slit him open without compensation. For the saving of human life, Timofi Samyanich. Oh, well, that's a matter for the police. You must go to them. But Ivan Matvić may be needed in the department. He may be asked for. Ivan Matvić needed? Ha ha! Besides, he is on leave, so that we may ignore him. Let him inspect the countries of Europe. It will be a different matter if he doesn't turn up when his leave is over. Then we shall ask for him and make inquiries. Three months. Timofi Samyanich for pity's sake. It's his own fault. Nobody thrust him there. At this rate, we should have to get a nurse to look after him at government expense, and that is not allowed for in regulations. But the chief point is that the crocodile is private property, so that the principles of economics apply in this question. And the principles of economics are paramount. Only the other evening at Luka Andrejic's Ignati Prokofić was saying so. Do you know Ignati Prokofić? A capitalist in a big way of business, and he speaks so fluently. We need industrial development, he said. There is very little development among us. We must create it. We must create capital. So we must create a middle class, the so called bourgeoisie. And as we haven't capital, we must attract it from abroad. We must in the first place give facilities to foreign companies to buy up lands in Russia as is done now abroad. The communal holding of land is poison, is ruin. And you know, he spoke with such heat. Well, that's all right for him, a wealthy man, and not in the service. With the communal system, he said, there will be no improvement in industrial development or agriculture. Foreign companies, he said, must as far as possible buy up the whole of our land in big lots, and then split it up, split it up, split it up in the smallest parts possible. And do you know he pronounced the words, split it up with such determination? And then sell it as private property, or rather not sell it but simply let it when, he said, all the land is in the hands of foreign companies they can fix any rent they like. And so the peasant will work three times as much for his daily bread, and he can be turned out at pleasure, so that he will feel it, will be submissive and industrious, and will work three times as much for the same wages. But as it is with the commune, what does he care? He knows he won't die of hunger, so he is lazy and drunken. And meanwhile, money will be attracted into Russia, capital will be created, and the bourgeoisie will spring up. The English political and literary paper, The Times, in an article the other day on our finances stated that the reason our financial position was so unsatisfactory was that we had no middle class, no big fortunes, no accommodating proletariat. Ignati Prokofievich speaks well, he is an orator, he wants to lay a report on the subject before the authorities, and then to get it published in the news. That's something very different from verses like Ivan Matviich's. But how about Ivan Matviich? I put in after letting the old man babble on, Timothy Semyanich was sometimes fond of talking, and showing that he was not behind the Times but knew all about things. How about Ivan Matviich? Why, I am coming to that. Here we are, anxious to bring foreign capital into the country, only consider, as soon as the capital of a foreigner who has been attracted to Petersburg has been doubled through Ivan Matviich. Instead of protecting the foreign capitalist, we are proposing to rip open the belly of his original capital, the crocodile. Is it consistent? To my mind, Ivan Matviich, as the true son of his fatherland ought to rejoice and be proud that through him the value of a foreign crocodile has been doubled and possibly even trebled. That's just what is wanted to attract capital. If one man succeeds, mind you, another will come with a crocodile, and a third will bring two or three of them at once, and capital will grow up about them. There you have a bourgeoisie. It must be encouraged. Upon my word, Timothy Semyonich, I cried, you are demanding almost supernatural self-sacrifice from poor Ivan Matviich. I demand nothing, and I beg you, before everything, as I have said already, to remember that I am not a person in authority and so cannot demand anything of anyone. I am speaking as a son of the fatherland, that is, not as the son of the fatherland, but as a son of the fatherland. Again, what possessed him to get into the crocodile? A respectable man, a man of good grade in the service, lawfully married, and then to behave like that. Is it consistent? But it was an accident. Who knows, and where is the money to compensate the owner to come from? Perhaps out of his salary, Timothy Semyonich. Would that be enough? No, it wouldn't, Timothy Semyonich. I answered sadly. The proprietor was at first alarmed that the crocodile would burst, but as soon as he was sure that it was all right, he began to bluster and was delighted to think that he could double the charge for entry. Treble and quadruple perhaps. The public will simply stampede the place now, and crocodile owners are smart people. Besides, it's not lent yet, and people are keen on diversions. And so I say again, the great thing is that Ivan Matvić should preserve his incognito. Don't let him be in a hurry. Let everybody know, perhaps, that he is in the crocodile, but don't let them be officially informed of it. Ivan Matvić is in particularly favorable circumstances for that, for he is reckoned to be abroad. It will be said that he is in the crocodile, and we will refuse to believe it. That is how it can be managed. The great thing is that he should wait, and why should he be in a hurry? Well, but if? Don't worry, he has a good constitution. Well, and afterwards, when he has waited? Well, I won't conceal from you that the case is exceptional in the highest degree. One doesn't know what to think of it, and the worst of it is that there is no precedent. If we had a precedent, we might have something to go by, but as it is, what is one to say? It will certainly take time to settle it. A happy thought flashed upon my mind. Can not we arrange, I said, that if he is destined to remain in the entrails of the monster, and it is the will of Providence that he should remain alive, that he should send in a petition to be reckoned as still serving? Possibly as on leave and without salary. But couldn't it be with salary? On what grounds? As sent on a special commission. What commission? And where? Why, into the entrails. The entrails of the crocodile, so to speak, for exploration, for investigation of the facts on the spot. It would, of course, be a novelty, but that is progressive, and would at the same time show zeal for enlightenment. Timothy Semionich thought a little. To send a special official, he said at last, to the inside of a crocodile to conduct a special inquiry is, in my personal opinion, an absurdity. It is not in the regulations, and what sort of special inquiry could there be there? The scientific study of nature on the spot, in the living subject, the natural sciences are all the fashion, nowadays. Botany, he could live there and report his observations. For instance, concerning digestion or simply habits, for the sake of accumulating facts. You mean as statistics. Well, I am no great authority on that subject. Indeed, I am no philosopher at all. You say facts. We are overwhelmed with facts as it is, and I don't know what to do with them. Besides, statistics are a danger. In what way? They are a danger. Moreover, you will admit he will report facts, so to speak, lying like a log. And can one do one's official duties, lying like a log? That would be another novelty and a dangerous one. And again, there is no precedent for it. If we had any sort of precedent for it, then, to my thinking, he might have been given the job. But no live crocodiles have been brought over hither, too, Timothy Semyonich. Yes, he reflected again. Your objection is a just one, if you like, and might indeed serve as a ground for carrying the matter further. But consider again that if, with the arrival of living crocodiles, government clerks begin to disappear, and then on the ground that they are warm and comfortable there, expect to receive the official sanction for their position and then take their ease there. You must admit it would be a bad example. We should have everyone trying to go the same way to get a salary for nothing. Do your best for him, Timothy Semyonich. By the way, Ivan Matvić asked me to give you seven rubles he had lost to you at cards. Ah, he lost that the other day at Nikifor Nikiforich's. I remember and how gay and amusing he was. And now. The old man was genuinely touched. Intercede for him, Timothy Semyonich. I will do my best. I will speak in my own name as a private person, as though I were asking for information. And meanwhile, you find out indirectly, unofficially, how much would the proprietor consent to take for his crocodile? Timothy Semyonich was visibly more friendly. Certainly, I answered, and I will come back to you at once to report. And his wife? Is she alone now? Is she depressed? You should call on her, Timothy Semyonich. I will. I thought of doing so before. It is a good opportunity, and what on earth possessed him to go and look at the crocodile? Though indeed, I should like to see it myself. Go and see the poor fellow, Timothy Semyonich. I will, of course. I don't want to raise his hopes by doing so. I shall go as a private person. Well, good-bye. I am going to Nikifor and Nikiforich's again. Shall you be there? No, I am going to see the poor prisoner. Yes, now he is a prisoner. That's what comes of thoughtlessness. I said good-bye to the old man. Ideas of all kinds were straying through my mind. A good-natured and most honest man, Timothy Semyonich, yet, as I left him, I felt pleased at the thought that he had celebrated his fiftieth year of service, and that Timothy Semyonich's are now a rarity among us. I flew at once, of course, to the arcade to tell poor Ivan Matvić all the news. And, indeed, I was moved by curiosity to know how he was getting on in the crocodile, and how it was possible to live in a crocodile, and, indeed, was it possible to live in a crocodile at all? At times it really seemed to me as though it were all an outlandish, monstrous dream, especially as an outlandish monster was the chief figure in it. End of the Crocodile Part II by Fyodor Dostoevsky, reading by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Section 13 of Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoevsky. This Libroxy Quoting is in the Public Domain. The Crocodile. An Extraordinary Incident. Part III. And yet it was not a dream, but actual indubitable fact. Should I be telling the story if it were not? But to continue. It was late, about nine o'clock, before I reached the arcade, and I had to go into the crocodile room by the back entrance, for the German had closed the shop earlier than usual that evening. Now, in the seclusion of domesticity, he was walking about in a greasy old frock coat, but he seemed three times as pleased as he had been in the morning. It was evidently that he had no apprehensions now, and that the public had been coming many more. The muta came out later, evidently to keep an eye on me. The German and the muta frequently whispered together. Although the shop was closed, he charged me a quarter ruble. What unnecessary exactitude. You will every time pay. The public will one ruble, and you one quarter pay, for you are the good friend of your good friend, and I a friend, respect. Are you alive? Are you alive, my cultured friend? I cried as I approached the crocodile, expecting my words to reach Ivan Matveitch from a distance and to flatter his vanity. Alive and well? He answered as though from a long way off, or from under the bed, though I was standing close beside him. Alive and well, but of that later, how are things going? As though purposely not hearing the question, I was just beginning with sympathetic haste to question him how he was, what it was like in the crocodile, and what in fact there was inside a crocodile, both friendship and common civility demanded this, but with capricious annoyance he interrupted me. How are things going? He shouted in a shrill, and on this occasion particularly revolting voice, addressing me peremptorily as usual. I described to him my whole conversation with Timothy Semyonich down to the smallest detail. As I told my story, I tried to show my resentment in my voice. The old man is right. Ivan Matveitch pronounced as abruptly as usual in his conversation with me. I like practical people. I can't endure sentimental milk sops. I am ready to admit, however, that your idea about a special commission is not altogether absurd. I certainly have a great deal to report, both from a scientific and from an ethical point of view, but now all this has taken a new and unexpected aspect, and it is not worthwhile to trouble about mere salary. Listen attentively. Are you sitting down? No, I am standing up. Sit down on the floor if there is nothing else, and listen attentively. Respectfully I took a chair and put it down on the floor with a bang in my anger. Listen! he began dictatorially. The public came today in masses. There was no room left in the evening, and the police came in to keep order. At eight o'clock, that is, earlier than usual, the proprietor thought it necessary to close the shop and end the exhibition to count the money he had taken, and prepare for tomorrow more conveniently. So I know there will be a regular fair tomorrow, so we may assume that all the most cultivated people in the capital, the ladies of the best society, the foreign ambassadors, the leading lawyers, and so on will all be present. What's more, people will be flowing here from the remotest provinces of our vast and interesting empire. The upshot of it is that I am the cynosier of all eyes. And though hidden to sight, I am eminent. I shall teach the idle crowd, taught by experience, I shall be an example of greatness and resignation to fate. I shall be, so to say, a pulpit from which to instruct mankind. The mere biological details I can furnish about the monster I am inhabiting are of priceless value, and so, far from repining at what has happened, I confidently hope for the most brilliant of careers. You won't find it weary some? I asked sarcastically. What irritated me more than anything was the extreme pomposity of his language. Nevertheless, it all rather disconcerted me. What on earth? What can this frivolous blockhead find to be so cocky about? I muttered to myself. He ought to be crying instead of being cocky. No! he answered my observation sharply. For I am full of great ideas. Only now can I at leisure ponder over the amelioration of the lot of humanity. Truth and light will come forth now from the crocodile. I shall certainly develop a new economic theory of my own, and I shall be proud of it, which I have hitherto been prevented from doing by my official duties and by trivial distractions. I shall refute everything and be a new Fourier. By the way, did you give Timothy Semionich the seven rubles? Yes, out of my own pocket, I answered, trying to emphasize the fact in my voice. We will settle it! he answered superciliously. I confidently expect my salary to be raised, for who should get a raise if not I? I am of the utmost service now. But to business, my wife? You are, I suppose, inquiring after Elena Ivanovna. My wife? He shouted this time in a positive squeal. There was no help for it. Meekly, though gnashing my teeth, I told him how I had left Elena Ivanovna. He did not even hear me out. I have special plans in regard to her. He began impatiently. If I am celebrated here, I wish her to be celebrated there. Savant's poets, philosophers, foreign mineralogist statesmen, after conversing in the morning with me, will visit her salon in the evening. From next week onwards, she must have an at-home every evening. With my salary doubled, we shall have the means for entertaining, and as the entertainment must not go beyond tea and hired footmen, that's settled. Both here and there, they will talk of me. I am long thirsty for an opportunity for being talked about, but could not attain it, fettered by my humble position and low grade in the service. And now, all this has been attained by a simple gulp on the part of the crocodile. Every word of mine will be listened to. Every utterance will be thought over, repeated, printed, and I'll teach them what I am worth. They shall understand at last what abilities they have allowed to vanish in the entrails of a monster. This man might have been foreign minister, or it might have ruled a kingdom, some will say, and that man did not rule a kingdom. Others will say, in what way am I inferior to a Gagnier, Pagasishki, or whatever they are called? My wife must be a worthy second. I have brains. She has beauty and charm. She is beautiful, and that is why she is his wife, some will say. She is beautiful because she is his wife. Others will amend. To be ready for anything, let Elena Ivanovna buy tomorrow the encyclopedia edited by Andrei Kravsky, that she may be able to converse on any topic. Above all, let her be sure to read the political leader in the Petersburg news, comparing it every day with the voice. I imagine that the proprietor will consent to take me sometimes with the crocodile to my wife's brilliant salon. I will be in a tank in the middle of the magnificent drawing room, and I will scintillate with witticisms which I will prepare in the morning. To the statesman I will impart my projects. To the poet I will speak in rhyme. With the ladies I can be amusing and charming without impropriety, since I shall be no danger to their husband's peace of mind. To all the rest I shall serve as a pattern of resignation to fate and the will of providence. I shall make my wife a brilliant literary lady. I shall bring her forward and explain her to the public. As my wife, she must be full of the most striking virtues, and if they are right in calling Andrei Alexozhevich our Russian Alfred de Musée, they will be still more right in calling her our Russian Evgenia Tour. I must confess that although this wild nonsense was rather an Ivan Matveitch's habitual style, it did occur to me that he was in a fever and delirious. It was the same every day, Ivan Matveitch, but magnified twenty times. My friend, I asked him, are you hoping for a long life? Tell me, in fact, are you well? How do you eat? How do you sleep? How do you breathe? I am your friend, and you must admit that the incident is most unnatural, and consequently my curiosity is most natural. Idle curiosity and nothing else? He pronounced sententiously. But you shall be satisfied. You ask how I am managing in the entrails of the monster? To begin with, the crocodile, to my amusement, turns out to be perfectly empty. His inside consists of a sort of huge empty sack made of gutter-patcher, like the elastic goods sold in the Gohavi street, in the Moskya, and if I am not mistaken, in the Voznesensky Prospect. Otherwise, if you think of it, how could I find room? Is it possible? I cried in a surprise that may be well understood. Can the crocodile be perfectly empty? Perfectly! Ivan Matveitch maintained sternly and impressively. And in all probability, it is so constructed by the laws of nature, the crocodile possesses nothing but jaws furnished with sharp teeth, and besides the jaws a tale of considerable length, that is all, properly speaking, the middle part between these two extremities is an empty space enclosed by something of the nature of gutter-patcher, probably really gutter-patcher. But the ribs, the stomach, the intestines, the liver, the heart, I interrupted quite angrily. There is nothing, absolutely nothing of all that, and probably there never has been. All that is the idle fancy of frivolous travelers was one inflates an air cushion. I am now with my person inflating the crocodile. He is incredibly elastic, indeed. You might, as the friend of the family, get in with me if you were generous and self-sacrificing enough, and even with you here there would be room to spare. I even think that in the last resort I might send for Elena Ivanovna. However, this void, hollow formation of the crocodile is quite in keeping with the teachings of natural science. If, for instance, one had to construct a new crocodile, the question would naturally present itself. What is the fundamental characteristic of the crocodile? The answer is clear to swallow human beings. How is one in constructing the crocodile to secure that he should swallow people? The answer is clearer still. Construct him hollow. It was settled by physics long ago that nature abhors a vacuum. Hence the inside of the crocodile must be hollow, said it may abhore the vacuum, and consequently swallow and so fill itself with anything it can come across, and that is the sole rational cause why every crocodile swallows men. It is not the same in the constitution of man. The amperior man's head is, for instance, the less he feels that thirst to fill, and that is the one exception to the general rule. It is all as clear as day to me now. I have deduced it by my own observation and experience being so to say in the very bowels of nature. In its retort, listening to the throbbing of its pulse, even etymology supports me, for the very word crocodile means voracity. Crocodile, crocodile is evidently an Italian word dating perhaps from the Egyptian pharaohs and evidently derived from the French verb croquet, which means to eat, to devour, in general, to absorb nourishment. All these remarks I intend to deliver as my first lecture in Elena Ivanovna's salon when they take me there in the tank. My friend oughtn't you at least to take some purgative. I cried voluntarily. He is in a fever, a fever, he is feverish. I repeated to myself an alarm. Nonsense! he answered contemptuously. Besides, in my present position it would be most inconvenient. I knew, though, that you would be sure to talk of taking medicine. But, my friend, how, how do you take food now? Have you dined today? No, but I am not hungry, and most likely I shall never take food again, and that too is quite natural, filling the whole interior of the crocodile I make him feel always full. Now, he need not be fed for some years. On the other hand, nourished by me, he will naturally impart to me all the vital juices of his body. It is the same as with some accomplished coquettes who embed themselves and their whole persons for the night in raw steak. And then, after their morning bath are fresh, supple, buxom, and fascinating. In that way, nourishing the crocodile, I myself obtain nourishment from him. Consequently, we mutually nourish one another. But as it is difficult even for a crocodile to digest a man like me, he must no doubt, he conscious of a certain weight in his stomach an organ which he does not, however, possess. And that is why, to avoid causing the creature's suffering, I do not often turn over, and although I could turn over, I do not do so from humanitarian motives. This is the one drawback of my present position, and in an allegorical sense. Timothy Semyonich was right in saying I was lying like a log, but I will prove that even lying like a log, nay, that only lying like a log, one can revolutionize the lot of mankind. All the great ideas and movements of our newspapers and magazines have evidently been the work of men who were lying like logs. That is why they call them divorced from the realities of life. But what does it matter? They're saying that. I am constructing now a complete system of my own, and you wouldn't believe how easy it is. You have only to creep into a secluded corner, or into a crocodile to shut your eyes, and you immediately devise a perfect millennium for mankind. When you went away this afternoon, I set the work at once, and have already invented three systems. Now I am preparing the fourth. It is true that at first one must refute everything that has gone before, but from the crocodile it is so easy to refute it. Besides, it all becomes clearer, seen from the inside of the crocodile. There are some drawbacks, though small ones, in my position. However, it is somewhat damp here and covered with a sort of slime. Moreover, there is a smell of India rubber, like the smell of my old galoshes. That is all. There are no other drawbacks. Ivan Matvić, I interrupted. All this is a miracle in which I can scarcely believe. And can you? Can you intend never to dine again? What trivial nonsense you are troubling about, you thoughtless, frivolous creature. I talk to you about great ideas, and you understand that I am sufficiently nourished by the great ideas which light up the darkness in which I am enveloped. The good-natured proprietor has, however, after consulting the kindly Muta, decided with her that they will every morning insert into the monster's jaws a bent metal tube, something like a whistlepipe, by means of which I can absorb coffee or broth with bread soaked in it. The pipe has already been bespoken in the neighborhood, but I think this is a superfluous luxury. I hope to live at least a thousand years, if it is true that crocodiles live so long, which, by the way, good thing I thought of it. You had better look up in some natural history tomorrow and tell me! For I may have been mistaken and have mixed it up with some excavated monster. There is only one reflection rather troubles me. As I am dressed in cloth and have boots on, the crocodile can obviously not digest me. Besides, I am alive and so am opposing the process of digestion with my whole will power. For you can understand that I do not wish to be turned into what all nourishment turns into, for that would be too humiliating for me. But there is one thing I am afraid of. In a thousand years the cloth of my coat, unfortunately of Russian make, may decay, and then left without clothing I might perhaps, in spite of my indignation, begin to be digested. And though by day nothing would induce me to allow it, at night in my sleep, when a man's will deserts him, I may be overtaken by the humiliating destiny of a potato, a pancake, or veal. Such an idea reduces me to fury. This alone is an argument for the revision of the tariff and the encouragement of the impartation of English cloth, which is stronger and so will withstand nature longer when one is swallowed by a crocodile. At the first opportunity I will impart this idea to some statesmen and at the same time to the political writers on our Petersburg dailies. Let them publish it abroad. I trust this will not be the only idea they will borrow from me. I foresee that every morning a regular crowd of them, provided with quarter rubles from the editorial office, will be flocking round me to seize my ideas on the telegrams of the previous day. In brief, the future presents itself to me in the rosiest light. Fever, fever, I whispered to myself. My friend. And freedom, I asked, wishing to learn his views thoroughly. You are, so to speak, in prison, while every man has a right to the enjoyment of freedom. He answered. Savages love independence. Wise men love order. And if there is no order. Ivan Matvić, spare me, please. Hold your tongue and listen. He squealed, vexed at my interrupting him. Never has my spirit soared as now. In my narrow refuge there is only one thing that I dread. The literary criticisms of the monthlys and the hiss of our satirical papers. I am afraid that thoughtless visitors, stupid and envious people, and nihilists in general, may turn me into ridicule, but I will take measures. I am impatiently awaiting the response of the public tomorrow and especially the opinion of the newspapers. You must tell me about the papers tomorrow. Very good. Tomorrow I will bring a perfect pile of papers with me. Tomorrow is too soon to expect reports in the newspapers, for it will take four days for it to be advertised. But from today, come to me every evening by the back way through the yard. I am intending to employ you as my secretary. You shall read the newspapers and magazines to me, and I will dictate to you my ideas and give you commissions. Be particularly careful not to forget the foreign telegrams. Let all the European telegrams be here every day, but enough. Most likely you are sleepy by now. Go home and do not think of what I said just now about criticisms. I am afraid of it, for the critics themselves are in a critical position. One has only to be wise and virtuous, and one will certainly get on to a pedestal. If not Socrates, then Diogenes, or perhaps both of them together, that is my future role among mankind. So frivolously and boastfully did Ivan Matveitch hasten to express himself before me, like feverish, weak-willed women, who, as we are told by the proverb, cannot keep a secret. All that he told me about the crocodile struck me as most suspicious. How was it possible that the crocodile was absolutely hollow? I don't mind betting that he was bragging from vanity and partly to humiliate me. It is true that he was an invalid, and one must make allowances for invalids, but I must frankly confess, I never could endure Ivan Matveitch. I have been trying all my life from a child up to escape from his tutelage and have not been able to. A thousand times over I have been tempted to break with him altogether, and every time I have been drawn to him again, as though I were still hoping to prove something to him or to revenge myself on him. A strange thing, this friendship. I can positively assert that nine-tenths of my friendship for him was made up of malice. On this occasion, however, we parted with genuine feeling. Your friend is a very clever man, the German said to me, and in undertone as he moved me out, he had been listening all the time attentively to our conversation. Apropos, I said, while I think of it, how much would you ask for your crocodile in case anyone wanted to buy it? Ivan Matveitch, who heard the question, was waiting with curiosity for the answer. It was evident that he did not want the German to ask too little. Anyway, he cleared his throat in a peculiar way on hearing the question. At first the German would not listen, was positively angry. No one will dare my own crocodile to buy! He cried furiously, and turned as red as a boiled lobster. Me not want to sell the crocodile! I would not for the crocodile a million talas take. I took a hundred and thirty tala from the public today, and I shall tomorrow ten thousand take, and then a hundred thousand every day I shall take. I will not him sell. Ivan Matveitch positively chuckled with satisfaction, controlling myself, for I felt it was a duty to my friend. I hinted coolly and reasonably to the crazy German that his calculations were not quite correct, that if he makes a hundred thousand every day, all Petersburg will have visited him in four days, and then there will be no one left to bring him rubles, that life and death are in God's hands, that the crocodile may burst or Ivan Matveitch may fall ill and die, and so on and so on. The German grew pensive. I will him drops from the chemist's get, he said after pondering, and will save your friend that he die not. Drops are all very well, I answered, but consider too that the thing may get into the law courts. Ivan Matveitch's wife may demand de-restitution of her lawful spouse. You are intending to get rich, but do you intend to give Elena Ivanovna a pension? No, me not intend, said the German in stern decision. No, we not intend, said the muta with positive malignancy. And so would it not be better for you to accept something now, at once, a secure and solid though moderate sum than to leave things to chance. I ought to tell you that I am inquiring simply from curiosity. The German drew the muta aside to consult with her in a corner, where there stood a case with the largest and ugliest monkey of his collection. Well, you will see, said Ivan Matveitch. As for me I was at that moment burning with the desire, first to give the German a thrashing, next to give the muta an even sounder one, and thirdly to give Ivan Matveitch the soundest thrashing of all for his boundless vanity. But all this paled beside the answer of the rapacious German. After consultation with the muta he demanded for his crocodile fifty thousand rubles in bonds of the last Russian loan with a lottery voucher attached, a brick house in Goryovy street with a chemist shop attached, and in addition the rank of Russian colonel. You see, Ivan Matveitch cried triumphantly, I told you so. Apart from this last senseless desire for the rank of a colonel he is perfectly right, for he fully understands the present value of the monster he is exhibiting, the economic principle before everything. Upon my word, I cried furiously to the German, but what should you be made a colonel for? What exploit have you performed? What service have you done? In what way have you gained military glory? You are really crazy. Crazy! cried the German offended. No, a person very sensible, but you very stupid. I have a colonel deserved, for that I have a crocodile shown, and in him a live hofrot sitting, and a Russian can a crocodile not show, and a live hofrot in him sitting, me extremely clever man, and much wish colonel to be. Well, goodbye then Ivan Matveitch. I cried shaking with fury, and I went out of the crocodile room almost at a run. I felt that, in another minute, I could not have answered for myself. The unnatural expectations of these two blockheads were insupportable. The cold air refreshed me and somewhat moderated my indignation. At last, after spitting vigorously fifteen times on each side, I took a cab, got home, undressed, and flung myself into bed. What vexed me more than anything was my having become his secretary. Now I was to dive boredom there every evening, doing the duty of a true friend. I was ready to beat myself for it, and I did in fact, after putting out the candle and pulling up the bed-clothes, punch myself several times on the head in various parts of my body. That somewhat relieved me, and at last I fell asleep fairly soundly in fact, for I was very tired. All night long I could dream of nothing but monkeys, but towards morning I dreamt of Elena Ivanovna. End of Section 3 of The Crocodile by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Section 14 of Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Crocodile. An Extraordinary Incident. Part 4 The monkeys I dreamed about, I surmise, because they were shut up in the case at the Germans, but Elena Ivanovna was a different story. I may as well say at once, I loved the lady, but I make haste, post-haste, to make a qualification. I loved her as a father, neither more nor less. I judged that because I often felt an irresistible desire to kiss her little head or her rosy cheek. And, though I never carried out this inclination, I would not have refused even to kiss her lips, and not merely her lips, but her teeth, which always gleamed so charmingly like two rows of pretty well-matched pearls when she laughed. She laughed extraordinarily often. Ivan Matvić, in demonstrative moments, used to call her his darling absurdity, a name extremely happy and appropriate. She was a perfect sugar plum, and that was all one could say of her. Therefore I am utterly at a loss to understand what possessed Ivan Matvić, to imagine his wife as a Russian Evgenia-tor. Anyway, my dream, with the exception of the monkeys, left the most pleasant impression upon me. In going over all the incidents of the previous day, as I drank my morning cup of tea, I resolved to go and see Elena Ivanovna at once on my way to the office, which indeed I was bound to do as the friend of the family. In a tiny little room out of the bedroom, the so-called little drawing-room, though their big drawing-room was little too, Elena Ivanovna was sitting, in some half-transparent morning wrapper, on a smart little sofa before a little tea-table, drinking coffee out of a little cup in which she was dipping a minute biscuit. She was ravishingly pretty, but struck me as being at the same time rather pensive. —Ah, that's you, naughty man! —she said, greeting me with an absent-minded smile. —Sit down, feather-head. Have some coffee. Well, what were you doing yesterday? Were you at the masquerade? —Why were you? —I don't go, you know. Besides, yesterday I was visiting our captive. I sighed and assumed a pious expression as I took the coffee. —Whom? —What captive? —Oh, yes. Poor fellow. Well, how is he? —Bored? —Do you know? —I wanted to ask you. I suppose I can ask for a divorce now. —A divorce? I cried in indignation and almost spilled the coffee. It's that swarthy fellow, I thought to myself bitterly. There was a certain swarthy gentleman with little moustaches, who was something in the architectural line, and who came far too often to see them, and was extremely skillful in amusing Elena Ivanovna. I must confess I hated him, and there was no doubt that he had succeeded in seeing Elena Ivanovna yesterday, either at the masquerade or even here, and putting all sorts of nonsense into her head. —Why? —Elena Ivanovna rattled off hurriedly, as though it were a lesson she had learnt. —If he is going to stay on in the crocodile, perhaps not come back all his life. While I sit waiting for him here, a husband ought to live at home, and not in a crocodile. —But this was an unforeseen occurrence. I was beginning in very comprehensible agitation. —Oh, no. Don't talk to me. I won't listen. I won't listen. —She cried, suddenly getting quite cross. —You are always against me. You wretch. There's no doing anything with you. You will never give me any advice. Other people tell me that I can get a divorce because Ivan Matvich will not get his salary now. —Elena Ivanovna, is it you I hear? —I exclaimed pathetically. —What villain could have put such an idea into your head? And a divorce on such a trivial ground as a salary is quite impossible? And poor Ivan Matvich. Poor Ivan Matvich is, so to speak, burning with love for you, even in the bowels of the monster. What's more, he is melting away with love like a lump of sugar. Yesterday, while you were enjoying yourself at the masquerade, he was saying that he might in the last resort send for you as his lawful spouse to join him in the entrails of the monster, especially as it appears the crocodile is exceedingly roomy, not only able to accommodate two, but even three persons. And then I told her all that interesting part of my conversation the night before with Ivan Matvich. —What? What? —She cried in surprise. —You want me to get into that monster, too? To be with Ivan Matvich? What an idea! And how am I to get in there, in my hat and crinoline? Heavens! What foolishness! And what should I look like while I was getting into it? And very likely there would be someone there to see me. It's absurd! And what should I have to eat there? And what should I do there when? Oh, my goodness! What will they think of next? And what should I have to amuse me there? You say there's a smell of gutter perch, and what should I do if we quarreled? Should we have to go on staying there side by side? Foo! How horrid! —I agree. I agree with all those arguments, my sweet Elena Ivanovna. I interrupted, striving to express myself with that natural enthusiasm which always overtakes a man when he feels the truth is on his side. But one thing you have not appreciated in all this. You have not realized that he cannot live without you if he is inviting you there. That is a proof of love. Passionate, faithful, ardent love. You have thought too little of his love, dear Elena Ivanovna. I won't. I won't. I won't hear anything about it. Waving me off with her pretty little hand with glistening pink nails that had just been washed and polished. Horrid man! You will reduce me to tears. Get into it yourself if you like the prospect. You are his friend. Get in and keep him company, and spend your life discussing some tedious science. You are wrong to laugh at the suggestion. I checked the frivolous woman with dignity. Ivan Matveitch has invited me as it is. You, of course, are summoned there by duty. For me it would be an act of generosity. But when Ivan Matveitch described to me last night the elasticity of the crocodile, he hinted very plainly that there would be room not only for you two, but for me also as a friend of the family, especially if I wish to join you, and therefore... How so? The three of us? cried Elena Ivanovna, looking at me in surprise. Why? How should we? Are we going to be all three there together? How silly you both are! I shall certainly pinch you all the time, you wretch! And falling back on the sofa, she laughed till she cried. All this, the tears and the laughter, were so fascinating that I could not resist rushing eagerly to kiss her hand, which she did not oppose, though she did pinch my ears lightly as a sign of reconciliation. Then we both grew very cheerful and I described to her in detail all Ivan Matveitch's plans. The thought of her evening receptions and her salon pleased her very much. Only I should need a great many new dresses. She observed. And so Ivan Matveitch must send me as much of his salary as possible, and as soon as possible. Only, only I don't know about that. She added thoughtfully. How can he be brought here in the tank? That's very absurd. I don't want my husband to be carried about in a tank. I should feel quite ashamed for my visitors to see it. I don't want that. No, I don't. By the way, while I think of it, was Timothy Semianich here yesterday? Oh yes, he was. He came to comfort me. And you know, we played cards all the time. He played for sweet meats. And if I lost, he was to kiss my hands. What a wretch he is. And only fancy, he almost came to the masquerade with me. Really! He was carried away by his feelings. I observed. And who would not be with you, you charmer? Oh, get along with your compliments. Stay. I'll give you a pinch as a parting present. I've learnt to pinch awfully well lately. Well, what do you say to that? By the way, you say Ivan Matvić spoke several times of me yesterday. No, not exactly. I must say he is thinking more now of the fate of humanity. And once... Oh, let him. You needn't go on. I am sure it's fearfully boring. I'll go and see him sometime. I shall certainly go tomorrow. Only, not today. I've got a headache. And besides, there will be such a lot of people there today. They'll say, that's his wife. And I shall feel ashamed. Goodbye. You will be there this evening, won't you? To see him? Yes. He asked me to go and take him the papers. That's capital. Go and read to him. But don't come and see me today. I am not well, and perhaps I may go and see someone. Goodbye, you naughty man. It's that swarthy fellow who is going to see her this evening, I thought. At the office, of course, I gave no sign of being consumed by these cares and anxieties. But soon I noticed some of the most progressive papers seemed to be passing particularly rapidly from hand to hand among my colleagues, and were being read with an extremely serious expression of face. The first one that reached me was the news sheet, a paper of no particular party, but humanitarian in general, for which it was regarded with contempt among us, though it was read. Not without surprise I read in it the following paragraph. Yesterday strange rumors were circulating among the spacious ways and sumptuous buildings of our vast metropolis. A certain well-known bon vivant of the highest society, probably weary of the cuisine at Borels and at the X-Club, went into the arcade, into the place where an immense crocodile recently brought to the metropolis is being exhibited, and insisted on its being prepared for his dinner. After bargaining with the proprietor, he at once set to work to devour him. That is, not the proprietor a very meek and punctilious German, but his crocodile. Cutting juicy morsels with his penknife from the living animal and swallowing them with extraordinary rapidity, by degrees the whole crocodile disappeared into the vast recesses of his stomach, so that he was even on the point of attacking an ichneumen, a constant companion of the crocodile, probably imagining that the latter would be as savoury. We are by no means opposed to that new article of diet with which foreign gourmands have long been familiar. We have indeed predicted that it would come. English lords and travellers make up regular parties for catching crocodiles in Egypt, and consume the back of the monster cooked like beef steak, with mustard, onions, and potatoes. The French who followed in the train of lecseps prefer the pause baked in hot ashes, which they do, however, in opposition to the English, who laugh at them. Probably both ways would be appreciated among us. For our part, we are delighted at a new branch of industry, of which our great and varied fatherland stands preeminently in need. Probably before a year is out, crocodiles will be brought in hundreds to replace this first one, lost in the stomach of a Petersburg gourmand. And why should not the crocodile be acclimatized among us in Russia? If the water of the Neva is too cold for these interesting strangers, there are ponds in the capital and rivers and lakes outside it. Why not breed crocodiles at Pargolovo, for instance, or at Pavlovsk in the Przrenensky Ponds, and in Samoteka in Moscow? While providing agreeable wholesome nourishment for our fastidious gourmands, they might at the same time entertain the ladies who walk about these ponds and instruct the children in natural history. The crocodile skin might be used for making jewel cases, boxes, cigar cases, pocketbooks, and possibly more than one thousand saved up in the greasy notes that are peculiarly beloved of merchants might be laid by in the crocodile skin. We hope to return more than once to this interesting topic. Though I had foreseen something of the sort, yet the reckless inaccuracy of the paragraph overwhelmed me, finding no one with whom to share my impression I turned to Prohor Savich, who was sitting opposite to me and noticed that the latter had been watching me for some time. While in his hand he held the voice, as though he were on the point of passing it to me. Without a word he took the news sheet from me, and as he handed me the voice he drew a line with his nail against an article to which he probably wished to call my attention. This Prohor Savich was a very queer man, a taciturn old bachelor. He was not on intimate terms with any of us, scarcely spoke to anyone in the office, always had an opinion of his own about everything, but could not bear to import it to anyone. He lived alone, hardly anyone among us had ever been in his lodging. This was what I read in the voice. Everyone knows that we are progressive and humanitarian and want to be on a level with Europe in this respect, but in spite of all our exertions and the efforts of our paper, we are still far from maturity, as may be judged from the shocking incident which took place yesterday in the arcade and which we predicted long ago. A foreigner arrives in the capital, bringing with him a crocodile which he begins exhibiting in the arcade. We immediately hasten to welcome a new branch of useful industry, such as our powerful and varied fatherland stands in great need of. Suddenly, yesterday at four o'clock in the afternoon, a gentleman of exceptional stoutness enters the foreigner's shop in an intoxicated condition, pays his entrance money, and immediately, without any warning, leaps into the jaws of the crocodile, who was forced of course to swallow him, if only from an instinct of self-preservation, to avoid being crushed. Tumbling into the inside of the crocodile, the stranger at once dropped asleep, neither the shouts of the foreign proprietor, nor the lamentations of his terrified family, nor threats to send for the police made the slightest impression. Within the crocodile was heard nothing but laughter and a promise to flay him. Sick, though the poor animal compelled to swallow such a mass was vainly shedding tears. An uninvited guest is worse than a tartar, but in spite of the proverb the insolent visitor would not leave. We do not know how to explain such barbarous incidents which prove our lack of culture and disgrace us in the eyes of foreigners. The recklessness of the Russian temperament has found a fresh outlet. It may be asked what was the object of the uninvited visitor, a warm and comfortable abode, but there are many excellent houses in the capital with very cheap and comfortable lodgings, with the navel water laid on and a staircase lighted by gas, frequently with a hall-porter maintained by the proprietor. We would call our reader's attention to the barbarous treatment of domestic animals. It is difficult, of course, for the crocodile, to digest such a mass all at once, and now he lies swollen out to the size of a mountain, awaiting death in insufferable agonies. In Europe, person's guilty of inhumanity towards domestic animals have long been punished by laws, but in spite of our European enlightenment, in spite of our European pavements, in spite of the European architecture of our houses, we are still far from shaking off our time-honored traditions. Though the houses are new, the conventions are old. And indeed the houses are not new, at least the staircases in them are not. We have more than once in our paper alluded to the fact that in the Petersburg side and the house of the merchant Lukyanov, the steps of the wooden staircase have decayed, fallen away, and have long been a danger for Afimya Skapodarov, a soldier's wife who works in the house, and is often obliged to go up the stairs with water or armfuls of wood. At last our predictions have come true. Yesterday evening, at half-past eight, Afimya Skapodarov fell down with a basin of soup and broke her leg. We do not know whether Lukyanov will mend his staircase now. Russians are often wise after the event, but the victim of Russian carelessness has by now been taken to the hospital. In the same way we shall never cease to maintain that the house-porters who clear away the mud from the wooden pavement in the Viborsky side ought not to splatter the legs of passers-by, but should throw the mud up into heaps as is done in Europe, and so on and so on. What's this? I asked in some perplexity, looking at pro-horse savage. But what's the meaning of it? How do you mean? Why, upon my word, instead of pitying Ivan Matvić, they pity the crocodile. What of it? They have pity even for a beast, a mammal. We must be up to Europe, mustn't we? They have a very warm feeling for crocodiles there, too. Saying this, queer old pro-horse savage dived into his papers, and would not utter another word. I stuffed the voice and the new sheet into my pocket, and collected as many old copies of the newspapers as I could find, for Ivan Matvić's diversion in the evening, and though the evening was far off, yet on this occasion I slipped away from the office early to go to the arcade and look, if only from a distance, at what was going on there, and to listen to the various remarks and currents of opinion. I foresaw that there would be a regular crush there, and turned up the collar of my coat to meet it. I somehow felt rather shy. So unaccustomed are we to publicity, but I feel that I have no right to report my own prosaic feelings when faced with this remarkable and original incident. End of The Crocodile by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, reading by John Van Sann, Savannah Georgia. Section 15 of Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Bobak. From somebody's diary. Semyon Ardelyanovich said to me all of a sudden the day before yesterday. Why, will you ever be sober, Ivan Ivanovich? Tell me that. Pray. A strange requirement. I did not resent it. I am a timid man, but here they have actually made me out mad. An artist painted my portrait as it happened. After all, you are a literary man, he said. I submitted, he exhibited it. I read, go and look at that morbid face suggesting insanity. It may be so, but think of putting it so bluntly into print. In print everything ought to be decorous. There ought to be ideals, while instead of that. Say it indirectly at least. That's what you have style for. But no, he doesn't care to do it indirectly. Nowadays, humor and a fine style have disappeared, and abuse is accepted as wit. I do not resent it, but God knows I am not enough of a literary man to go out of my mind. I have written a novel. It has not been published. I have written articles. They have been refused. Those articles I took about from one editor to another. Everywhere they refused them. You have no salt, they told me. What sort of salt do you want? I asked with a jeer, attic salt. They did not even understand. For the most part I translate from the French for the booksellers. I write advertisements for shopkeepers, too. Unique opportunity. Fine tea from our own plantations. I made a nice little sum over a pentagyric on his deceased excellency, Peter Matvić. I compiled the Art of Pleasing the Ladies, a commission from a bookseller. I have brought out some six little works of this kind in the course of my life. I am thinking of making a collection of the Bon Moe of Voltaire, but I am afraid it may seem a little flat to our people. Voltaire's no good now. Nowadays we want a cudgel, not Voltaire. We knock each other's last teeth out nowadays. Well, so that's the whole extent of my literary activity. Though, indeed, I do send round letters to the editors gratis and fully signed. I give them all sorts of counsels and admonitions, criticize, and point out the true path. The letter I sent last week to an editor's office was the fortieth I had sent in the last two years. I have wasted four rubles over stamps alone for them. My temper is at the bottom of it all. I believe that the artist who painted me did so not for the sake of literature, but for the sake of two symmetrical warts on my forehead, a natural phenomenon, he would say. They have no ideas, so now they are out for phenomena. And didn't he succeed in getting my warts in his portrait? To the life. That is what they call realism. And as to madness, a great many people were put down as mad among us last year, and in such language, with such original talent, and yet after all it appears, however, one ought to have foreseen it long ago. That is rather artful, so that from the point of view of pure art one may really commend it. Well, but after all, these so-called madmen have turned out cleverer than ever. So it seems the critics can call them mad, but they cannot produce anyone better. The wisest of all, in my opinion, is he who can, if only once a month, call himself a fool, a faculty unheard of nowadays. In old days, once a year at any rate, a fool would recognize that he was a fool. But nowadays, not a bit of it. And they have so muddled things up that there is no telling a fool from a wise man. They have done that on purpose. I remember a witty Spaniard saying when, 250 years ago, the French built their first madhouses, they have shut up all their fools in a house apart to make sure that they are wise men themselves. Just so, you don't show your own wisdom by shutting someone else in a madhouse. Kay has gone out of his mind, means that we are sane now. No, it doesn't mean that yet. Hang it, though. Why am I mondering on? I go on grumbling and grumbling. Even my maid servant is sick of me. Yesterday a friend came to see me. Your style is changing, he said. It is choppy, you chop and chop, and then a parenthesis, then a parenthesis in the parenthesis, then you stick in something else in brackets, then you begin chopping and chopping again. The friend is right. Something strange is happening to me. My character is changing and my head aches. I am beginning to see and hear strange things. Not voices exactly, but as though someone beside me were muttering, Bobok, Bobok, Bobok. What's the meaning of this, Bobok? I must divert my mind. I went out in search of diversion. I hid upon a funeral. A distant relation. A collegiate counselor, however. A widow and five daughters. All marriageable young ladies. What must it come to even to keep them in slippers? Their father managed it, but now there is only a little pension. They will have to eat humble pie. They have always received me ungraciously. And indeed, I should not have gone to the funeral now had it not been for a peculiar circumstance. I followed the procession to the cemetery with the rest. They were stuck up and held aloof from me. My uniform was certainly rather shabby. It's five and twenty years, I believe, since I was at the cemetery. What a wretched place. To begin with, the smell. There were fifteen herces with Paul's varying inexpensiveness. There were actually two catafolks. One was at Generals and one some ladies. There were many mourners, a great deal of feigned mourning, and a great deal of open gaiety. The clergy have nothing to complain of. It brings them a good income, but the smell. The smell. I should not like to be one of the clergy here. I kept glancing at the faces of the dead cautiously, distrusting my impressionability. Some had a mild expression, some looked unpleasant. As a rule the smiles were disagreeable, and in some cases very much so. I don't like them. They haunt one's dreams. During the service I went out of the church into the air. It was a grey day, but dry. It was cold, too, but then it was October. I walked about among the tombs. They are of different grades. The third grade cost thirty rubles. It's decent and not so very dear. The first two grades are tombs in the church and under the porch. They cost a pretty penny. On this occasion they were burying in tombs of the third grade six persons, among them the general and the lady. I looked into the graves, and it was horrible. Water and such water! Absolutely green and—but there. Why talk of it? The grave digger was bailing it out every minute. I went out while the service was going on and strolled outside the gates. Close by was an alms-house, and a little further off there was a restaurant. It was not a bad little restaurant. There was lunch and everything. There were lots of the mourners there. I noticed a great deal of gaiety and genuine hardiness. I had something to eat and drink. Then I took part in the burying of the coffin from the church to the graveyard. Why is it that corpses in their coffins are so heavy? They say it is due to some sort of inertia, that the body is no longer directed by its owner, or some nonsense of that sort, in opposition to the laws of mechanics and common sense. I don't like to hear people who have nothing but a general education venture to solve the problems that require special knowledge. And with us that's done continually. Civilians love to pass opinions about subjects that are the province of the soldier and even of the field-martial. While men who have been educated as engineers prefer discussing philosophy and political economy, I did not go to the Requiem Service. I have some pride. And if I am only received owing to some special necessity, why force myself on their dinners, even if it be a funeral dinner? The only thing I don't understand is why I stayed at the cemetery. I sat on a tombstone and sank into appropriate reflections. I began with the Moscow Exhibition and ended with reflecting upon astonishment in the abstract. My deductions about astonishment were these. To be surprised that everything is stupid, of course, and to be astonished at nothing is a great deal more becoming, and for some reason accepted as good form. But that is not really true. To my mind, to be astonished at nothing is much more stupid than to be astonished at everything. And moreover, to be astonished at nothing is almost the same as feeling respect for nothing. And indeed a stupid man is incapable of feeling respect. But what I desire most of all is to feel respect. I thirst to feel respect. One of my acquaintances said to me the other day, he thirsts to feel respect. Goodness, I thought. What would happen to you if you dared to print that nowadays? At that point I sank into forgetfulness. I don't like reading the epitaphs of tombstones. They are everlastingly the same. An unfinished sandwich was lying on the tombstone near me. Stupid and inappropriate. I threw it on the ground as it was not bread but only a sandwich. Though I believe it is not a sin to throw bread on the earth but only on the floor, I must look it up in Suverin's calendar. I suppose I sat there for a long time. Too long a time, in fact. I must have lain down on a long stone which was of the shape of a marble coffin. And how it happened, I don't know. But I began to hear things of all sorts being said. At first I did not pay attention to it but treated it with contempt. But the conversation went on. I heard muffled sounds as though the speaker's mouths were covered with a pillow, and at the same time they were distinct and very near. I came to myself, sat up, and began listening attentively. Your Excellency, it's utterly impossible. You lead hearts. I return your lead, and here you play the seven of diamonds. You ought to have given me a hint about diamonds. What? Play by hard and fast rules? Where is the charm of that? You must, Your Excellency. One can't do anything without something to go upon. We must play with dummy. Let one hand not be turned up. Well, you won't find a dummy here. What conceited words? And it was queer and unexpected. One was such a ponderous dignified voice. The other softly suave. I should not have believed it if I had not heard it myself. I had not been to the requiem dinner, I believe. And yet, how could they be playing preference here, and what general was this? That the sounds came from under the tombstones, that there could be no doubt. I bent down and read on the tomb. Here lies the body of Major General Purvoyadev, a cavalier of such-and-such orders. Past away in August of this year, fifty-seven, rest beloved ashes till the joyful dawn. Hm, dash it. It really is a general. There was no monument on the grave from which the obsequious voice came. There was only a tombstone. He must have been a fresh arrival. From his voice he was a lower court counselor. I heard a new voice a dozen yards from the general's resting place, coming from quite a fresh grave. The voice belonged to a man and a plebeian, marquish with its affectation of religious fervour. Oh, here he is hiccuping again! cried the haughty and disdainful voice of an irritated lady, apparently of the highest society. It is an affliction to be by this shopkeeper. I didn't hiccup, why? I've had nothing to eat. It's simply my nature. Really, madam, you don't seem to be able to get rid of your caprices here. Then why don't you come and lie down here? They put me here. My wife and little children put me here. I did not lie down here of myself, the mystery of death, and I would not have lain down beside you, not for any money. I lay here as befitting my fortune, judging by the price, for we can always do that, pay for a tomb of the third grade. You made money, I suppose. You fleeced people. Fleece you indeed. We haven't seen the colour of your money since January. There's a little bill against you at the shop. Well, that's really stupid. To try and recover debts here is too stupid to my thinking. Go to the surface. Ask my niece. She is my heiress. There's no asking anyone now, and no going anywhere. We have both reached our limit, and before the judgment seat of God are equal in our sins. In our sins? The lady mimicked him contemptuously. Don't dare to speak to me. You see, the shopkeeper obeys the lady your excellency. Why shouldn't he? Why, your excellency, because we all know things are different here. Different? How? We are dead, so to speak, your excellency. Oh yes, but still. Well, this is an entertainment. It is a fine show, I must say. If it has come to this down here, what can one expect on the surface? But what a queer business. I went on listening, however, though with extreme indignation. Yes, I should like a taste of life. Yes, you know, I should like a taste of life. I heard a new voice suddenly somewhere in the space between the general and the irritable lady. Do you hear, your excellency? Our friend is at the same game again. For three days at a time, he says nothing, and then he bursts out with, I should like a taste of life. Yes, a taste of life, and with such an appetite. And such frivolity. It gets hold of him, your excellency. And do you know, he is growing sleepy, quite sleepy. He has been here since April, and then all of a sudden, I should like a taste of life. It is rather dull, though. Observed his excellency. It is your excellency. Shall we tease Avdolcha Ignatyevna again? No, spare me, please. I can't endure that quarrelsome virgo. And I can't endure either of you. Cried the virgo, disdainfully. You are both of you boors, and can't tell me anything ideal. I know one little story about you, your excellency. Don't turn your nose up, please. How a man's servant swept you out from under a married couple's bed one morning. Nasty woman. The general muttered through his teeth. Avdolcha Ignatyevna, ma'am. The shopkeeper wailed suddenly again. My dear lady, don't be angry but tell me, am I going through the ordeal by torment now, or is it something else? Ah, he is at it again, as I expected, for there's a smell from him which means he is turning round. I am not turning round, ma'am, and there's no particular smell from me, for I've kept my body whole as it should be, while you are regularly high, for the smell is really horrible even for a place like this. I don't speak of it merely from politeness. Ha, you horrid insulting wretch. He positively stinks and talks about me. If only the time for my requiem would come quickly, I should hear their tearful voices over my head, my wife's lament, and my children's soft weeping. Well, that's a thing to fret for. They'll stuff themselves with funeral rice and go home. I wish somebody would wake up. Avdolcha Ignatyevna, said the insinuating government clerk. Wait a bit, the new arrivals will speak. And are there any young people among them? Yes, there are Avdolcha Ignatyevna. There are some not more than lads. Oh, how welcome that would be! Haven't they begun yet? Inquired his excellency. Even those who came the day before yesterday haven't awakened yet your excellency. As you know they sometimes don't speak for a week. It's a good job that today and yesterday, and the day before they brought a whole lot. As it is, they are all last years for seventy feet round. Yes, it will be interesting. Yes, your excellency. They buried Terecevich the privy counselor today. I knew it from the voices. I know his nephew. He helped to lower the coffin just now. Hmm, where is he then? Five steps from you, your excellency. On the left, almost at your feet. You should make his acquaintance, your excellency. Hmm, no. It's not for me to make advances. Oh, he will begin of himself, your excellency. He will be flattered. Leave it to me, your excellency, and I. Oh, oh, what is happening to me? Croaked the frightened voice of a new arrival. A new arrival, your excellency. A new arrival. Thank God, and how quick he's been. Sometimes they don't say a word for a week. Oh, I believe it's a young man. Avdotsha Ignatyevna cried shrilly. I, I, it was a complication, and so sudden. Faltered the young man again. Only the evening before, Schultz said to me, there's a complication, and I died suddenly before morning. Well, there's no help for it, young man. The general observed graciously. Evidently pleased at a new arrival. You must be comforted. You are kindly welcome to our veil of Jehoshaphat, so to call it. We are kind-hearted people. You will come to know us and appreciate us. Major General Vasily Vasilych Purvoyadev at your service. Oh, no, no, certainly not. I was at Schultz's. I had a complication, you know. At first it was my chest and a cough, and then I caught a cold. My lungs and influenza, and all of a sudden quite unexpectedly. The worst of all was its being so unexpected. You say it began with the chest. The government clerk put in suavely, as though he wished to reassure the new arrival. Yes, my chest and guitar, and then no guitar, but still the chest, and I couldn't breathe. And you know. I know, I know. But if it was the chest, you ought to have gone to Ekka and not to Schultz. You know, I kept meaning to go to Botkin's, and all at once. Botkin is quite prohibitive. Observe the general. Oh, no. He is not forbidding at all. I've heard he is so attentive, and foretells everything beforehand. His Excellency was referring to his fees. The government clerk corrected him. Oh, not at all. He only has three rubles, and he makes such an examination, and gives you a prescription. And I was very anxious to see him, for I've been told, well, gentlemen, that I'd better go to Ekka or to Botkin. What? To whom? The general's corpse shook with agreeable laughter. The government clerk echoed it in falsetto. Dear boy, dear delightful boy, how I love you. I wish they had put someone like you next to me. No, that was too much. And these were the dead of our times. Still, I ought to listen more and not be in too great a hurry to draw conclusions. That sniveling new arrival, I remember him just now in his coffin, had the expression of a frightened chicken, the most revolting expression in the world. However, let us wait and see. But what happened next was such a bedlam that I could not keep it all in my memory, for a great many woke up at once. An official, a civil councillor, woke up, and began discussing at once the project of a new subcommittee in the government department, and of the probable transfer of various functionaries in connection with the subcommittee, which were very greatly interested the general. I must confess I learned a great deal that was new myself, so much so that I marveled at the channels by which one may, sometimes, in the metropolis learned government news. Then an engineer half woke up, but for a long time muttered absolute nonsense, so that our friends left off worrying him and let him lie till he was ready. At last the distinguished lady who had been buried in the morning under the catafalque showed symptoms of the reanimation of the tomb. Lebedsyetnikov, for the obsequious lower court councillor whom I detested and who lay beside General Pervoyadev was called, it appears, Lebedsyetnikov, became much excited and surprised that they were all waking up so soon this time. I must own I was surprised too, though some of those who had woke had been buried for three days, as, for instance, a very young girl of sixteen who kept giggling, giggling in a horrible and predatory way. Your Excellency, privy councillor Terosevich is waking. Lebedsyetnikov announced with extreme fussiness. Hey, what? The privy councillor waking up suddenly mumbled with a lisp of disgust. There was a note of ill-humoured preemptoriness and sound of his voice. I listened with curiosity, for during the last few days I had heard something about Terosevich, shocking and upsetting in the extreme. It's I, Your Excellency, so far only I. What is your petition? What do you want? Merely to inquire at Your Excellency's health, in these unaccustomed surroundings everyone feels at first, as it were, oppressed. General Pervoyadev wishes to have the honour of making Your Excellency's acquaintance and hopes. I've never heard of him. Surely, Your Excellency, General Pervoyadev, the silly Vasilych? Are you General Pervoyadev? No, Your Excellency, I am only the lower court councillor, Lebedsyetnikov at your service, but General Pervoyadev? Nonsense, and I beg you to leave me alone. Let him be. General Pervoyadev at last himself checked with dignity the disgusting officiousness of his sycophant in the grave. He is not fully awake, Your Excellency. You must consider that. It's the novelty of it all. When he is fully awake, he will take it differently. Let him be. Repeated the General. Vasily Vasilych, hey, Your Excellency! A perfectly new voice shouted loudly and aggressively from close beside Avdorcha Ignatyevna. It was a voice of gentlemanly insolence, with the languid pronunciation now fashionable and an arrogant drawl. I've been watching you all for the last two hours. Do you remember me, Vasily Vasilych? My name is Klinivitz. We met at the Volunkonskys, where you, too, were received as a guest. I am sure I don't know why. What? Count Peter Petrovich? Can it be really you? And at such an early age, how sorry I am to hear it. Oh, I am sorry myself, though I don't really mind. And I want to amuse myself as far as I can everywhere. And I am not a count, but a baron, only a baron. We are only a set of scurvy barons, risen from being flunkies. But why I don't know, and I don't care. I am only a scoundrel of the pseudo-aristocratic society. And I am regarded as a charming policent. My father is a wretched little general, and my mother was at one time received en hâte l'eur. With the help of the Jew, Ziffel, I forged 50,000 ruble notes last year, and then I informed against him, while Jules Charpentier de la Signane carried off the money to Bordeaux. And only fancy, I was engaged to be married, to a girl still at school, three months under sixteen, with a dowry of 90,000. Avdacha Ignatyevna, do you remember how you seduced me 15 years ago, when I was a boy of 14 in the court of Peche? Ha! That's you, you rascal! Well, you are a godsend anyway, for here? You were mistaken in suspecting your neighbour, the business gentleman of unpleasant fragrance. I said nothing, but I laughed. The stench came from me. They had to bury me in a nailed-up coffin. Oh, you horrid creature! Still, I am glad you are here. You can't imagine the lack of life and wit here. Quite so, quite so, and I intend to start here something original. Your Excellency, I don't mean you, Pervoyadev. Your Excellency, the other one, Teracevich, the privy counsellor, answer. I am Klinovich, who took you to Mademoiselle Fury in Lent. Do you hear? I do, Klinovich, and I am delighted, and trust me. I wouldn't trust you with a half-penny, and I don't care. I simply want to kiss you, dear old man, but luckily I can't. Do you know, gentlemen, what this grand pair's little game was? He died three or four days ago, and would you believe it? He left a deficit of 400,000 government money from the fund for widows and orphans. He was the sole person in control of it for some reason, so that his accounts were not audited for the last eight years. I can fancy what long faces they all have now, and what they call him. It's a delectable thought, isn't it? I have been wondering for the last year how a wretched old man of seventy, gouty and rheumatic, succeeded in preserving the physical energy for his debaucheries, and now the riddle is solved. Those widows and orphans, the very thought of them, must have egged him on. I knew about it long ago. I was the only one who did know. It was Julie, told me, and as soon as I discovered it, I attacked him in a friendly way at once in Easter week. Give me 25,000. If you don't, they'll look into your accounts tomorrow. And just fancy, he had only 13,000 left then, so it seems it was very apropos his dying now. Grand pair, grand pair, do you hear? Sherk Lenevich, I quite agree with you, and there was no need for you to go into such details. Life is so full of suffering and torment, and so little to make up for it, that I wanted at last to be at rest, and so far as I can see, I hope to get all I can from here too. I bet that he has already sniffed Katich Berestov. Oh, what Katish! There was a rapacious quiver in the old man's voice. Aha! What Katish! Why, here on the left, five paces from me and ten from you. She has been here five days, and if only you knew, grand pair, what a little wretch she is, of good family and breeding and a monster, a regular monster. I did not introduce her to anyone there. I was the only one who knew her. Katish, answer! The girl responded with a jangling laugh, in which there was a note of something as sharp as the prick of a needle. A little blonde. The grand pair faltered, drawing out the syllables. He? Have long. I have long. The old man faltered breathlessly. Cherish the dream of a little fair thing of fifteen, and just in such surroundings. Ha! The monster! cried of Dorcha Ignatyevna. Enough! Klinovich decided. I see there is excellent material. We shall soon arrange things better. The great thing is to spend the rest of our time cheerfully. But what time? Hey, you! Government clerk! Lebeziatnikov, or whatever it is! I hear that's your name. Semyon Yevsiyech Lebeziatnikov, lower court counselor at your service. Very, very, very much delighted to meet you. I don't care whether you are delighted or not, but you seem to know everything here. Tell me, first of all, how is it we can talk? I've been wondering ever since yesterday. We are dead, and yet we are talking, and seem to be moving. And yet we are not talking, and not moving. What jugglery is this? If you want an explanation, Baron, Platon Nikolaevich could give you one better than I. What? Platon Nikolaevich is that? To the point, don't beat about the bush. Platon Nikolaevich is our homegrown philosopher, scientist, and master of arts. He has brought out several philosophical works, but for the last three months he has been getting quite drowsy, and there is no stirring him up now. Once a week he mutters something utterly irrelevant. To the point, to the point! He explains all this by the simplest fact. Namely, that when we were living on the surface, we mistakenly thought that death, there was death. The body revives, as it were, here the remains of life are concentrated, but only in consciousness. I don't know how to express it, but life goes on, as it were, by inertia. In his opinion, everything is concentrated somewhere in consciousness, and goes on for two or three months, sometimes even for half a year. There is one here, for instance, who is almost completely decomposed, but once every six weeks he suddenly utters one word, quite senseless, of course, about some Bobok, Bobok Bobok. But you see that an imperceptible speck of life is still warm within him. It's rather stupid, well, and how is it I have no sense of smell, and yet I feel there is a stench? That, he he, well, on that point our philosopher is a bit foggy. It's apropos of smell, he said, that the stench one perceives here is, so to speak, moral, he he, it's the stench of the soul, he says, that in these two or three months it may have time to recover itself, and this is, so to speak, the last mercy. Only I think, Baron, that these are mystic ravings very excusable in his position. Enough, all the rest of it I am sure is nonsense. The great thing is that we have two or three months more of life, and then, Bobok, I propose to spend these two months as agreeably as possible, and so to arrange everything on a new basis. Gentlemen, I propose to cast aside all shame. Ah, let us cast aside all shame, let us! Many voices could be heard saying, and strange to say, several new voices were audible which must have belonged to others newly awakened. The engineer, now fully awake, boomed out his agreement with peculiar delight. The girl could teach giggled gleefully. Oh, how I longed cast off all shame. Avdotcha Ignatyevna exclaimed rapturously. I say, if Avdotcha Ignatyevna wants to cast off all shame. No, no, no, Klinovich, I was ashamed up there all the same, but here I should like to cast off shame. I should like it awfully. I understand, Klinovich, boomed the engineer, that you want to rearrange life here on new and rational principles. Oh, I don't care a hang about that. For that, we'll wait for Kudiyarov, who was brought here yesterday. When he wakes, he'll tell you all about it. He is such a personality, such a titanic personality. Tomorrow they'll bring along another natural scientist, I believe, an officer for certain, and three or four days later a journalist, and I believe his editor with him. But doos take them all. There will be a little group of us anyway, and things will arrange themselves. Though meanwhile I don't want us to be telling lies, that's all I care about, for that is one thing that matters. One cannot exist on the surface without lying, for life and lying are synonymous. But here, we will amuse ourselves by not lying. Hang it all, the grave has some value after all. We'll all tell our stories allowed, and we won't be ashamed of anything. First of all, I'll tell you about myself. I am one of the predatory kind, you know. All that was bound and held in check by rotten cords up there on the surface, away with cords, and let us spend these two months in shameless truthfulness. Let us strip and be naked. Let us be naked. Let us be naked. cried all the voices. I long to be naked. I long to be. Avdacha Ignatyevna shrilled. Ah, ah, I see we shall have fun here. I don't want ecca after all. No, I tell you, give me a taste of life. The great thing is that no one can interfere with us, and though I see Pervoyadev is in a temper, he can't reach me with his hand. Grandpaire, do you agree? I fully agree, fully, and with the utmost satisfaction, but on condition that Katish is the first to give us her biography. I protest, I protest with all my heart. General Pervoyadev brought out firmly, Your Excellency! the scoundrel Abesietnikov persuaded him in a murmur of fussy excitement. Your Excellency, it will be to our advantage to agree. Here, you see, there's this girls, and all their little affairs. There's the girl, it's true, but it's to our advantage, Your Excellency, upon my word it is. If only as an experiment, let us try. Even in the grave, they won't let us rest in peace. In the first place, General, you were playing preference in the grave, and in the second, we don't care a hang about you. Drawed, Klinovich. Sir, I beg you not to forget yourself. What? Why, you can't get at me, and I can tease you from here as though you were Julie's lapdog. And another thing, gentlemen, how is he a general here? He was a general there, but here is mere refuse. No, not mere refuse, even here. Here, you will rot in the grave, and six brass buttons will be all that will be left of you. Bravo, Klinovich! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Roared voices. I have served my sovereign. I have the sword. Your sword is only fit to prick mice, and you never drew it even for that. That makes no difference. I formed a part of the whole. There are all sorts of parts in a whole. Bravo, Klinovich! Bravo! Ha-ha-ha! I don't understand what the sword stands for. Boomed the engineer. We shall run away from the Prussians like mice. They'll crush us to powder. Cried a voice in the distance. That was unfamiliar to me. That was positively spluttering with glee. The sword, sir, is in honor. The general cried, but only I heard him. There arose a prolonged and furious roar, clamor, and hubbub, and only the hysterically impatient squeals of Evdolcha Ignatyevna were audible. But do let us make haste. Ha! When are we going to begin to cast off all shame? The soul does, in truth, pass through torments, exclaimed the voice of the plebeian. And? And here I suddenly sneezed. It happened suddenly and unintentionally, but the effect was striking. All became as silent as one expects it to be in a church yard. It all vanished like a dream. A real silence of the tomb set in. I don't believe they were ashamed on account of my presence. They had made up their minds to cast off all shame. I waited five minutes. Not a word. Not a sound. It cannot be supposed that they were afraid of my informing the police. For what could the police do to them? I must conclude that they had some secret unknown to the living which they carefully concealed from every mortal. Well, my dears, I thought, I shall visit you again. And with those words I left the cemetery. No, that I cannot admit. No, I really cannot. The Bobok case does not trouble me. So that is what that Bobok signified. Depravity in such a place. Depravity of the last aspirations. Depravity of sodden and rotten corpses. And not even sparing the last moments of consciousness. Those moments have been granted. Vouch safe to them. And worst of all, in such a place. No. That I cannot admit. I shall go to other tombs. I shall listen everywhere. Certainly one ought to listen everywhere and not merely at one spot in order to form an idea. Perhaps one may come across something reassuring. But I shall certainly go back to those. They promise their biographies and anecdotes of all sorts. Tsu. But I shall go. I shall certainly go. It is a question of conscience. I shall take it to the citizen. The editor there has had his portrait exhibited too. Maybe he will print it. End of Bobok by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia.