amily the members of which were ever
in favour of change, and devoted to anything that was new. In fact,
they went and set up a piano! Well, of them only Valentine is still on
his legs, and he (he is a doctor of less than forty years of age) is a
hopeless drunkard, and saturated with dropsy, and fallen a prey to
asthma, so that his cancerous eyes protrude horribly. Yes, the
Kapustins, like the Polukonovs, may be 'written down as dead.'"

Throughout, Vologonov speaks in a tone of unassailable conviction, in a
tone implying that never could things happen, never could things have
happened, otherwise than as he has stated. In fact, in his hands even
the most inexplicable, the most grievous, phenomena of life become such
as a law has inevitably decreed.

"And the same thing will befall the Osmukhins," he next remarks. "Let
them be a warning to you never to make friends with Germans, and never
to engage in business with them. In Russia any housewife may brew beer;
yet our people will not drink it--they are more used to spirits. Also,
Russian folk like to attain their object in drinking AT ONCE; and a
shkalik of vodka will do more to sap wit than five kruzhki of beer.
Once our people liked uniform simplicity; but now they are become like
a man who was born blind, and has suddenly acquired sight. A change
indeed! For thirty-three years did Ilya of Murom [Ilya Murometz, the
legendary figure most frequently met with In Russian bilini (folk
songs), and probably identical with Elijah the Prophet, though credited
with many of the attributes proper, rather, to the pagan god Perun the
Thunderer.] sit waiting for his end before it came; and all who cannot
bide patiently in a state of humility..."

Meanwhile clouds shaped like snow-white swans are traversing the
roseate heavens and disappearing into space, while below them, on
earth, the ravine can be seen spread out like the pelt of a bear which
the broad shoulders of some fabulous giant have sloughed before taking
refuge in the marshes and forest. In fact the landscape reminds me of
sundry ancient tales of marvels, as also does Antipa Vologonov, the man
who is so strangely conversant with the shortcomings of human life, and
so passionately addicted to discussing them.

For a moment or two he remains silent as sibilantly he purses his lips
and drinks some saffron-coloured tea from the saucer which the splayed
fingers of his right hand are balancing on their tips. Whereafter, when
h