ere is heard the pompous challenge, the intoxication of future
victories. But suddenly mingling with the masterly variations on the
national hymn, somewhere from some corner quite close, on one side come
the vulgar strains of "Mein lieber Augustin." The "Marseillaise" goes
on unconscious of them. The "Marseillaise" is at the climax of its
intoxication with its own grandeur; but Augustin gains strength;
Augustin grows more and more insolent, and suddenly the melody of
Augustin begins to blend with the melody of the "Marseillaise." The
latter begins, as it were, to get angry; becoming aware of Augustin
at last she tries to fling him off, to brush him aside like a tiresome
insignificant fly. But "Mein lieber Augustin" holds his ground firmly,
he is cheerful and self-confident, he is gleeful and impudent, and the
"Marseillaise" seems suddenly to become terribly stupid. She can no
longer conceal her anger and mortification; it is a wail of indignation,
tears, and curses, with hands outstretched to Providence.

_"Pas un pouce de notre terrain; pas une de nos forteresses."_

But she is forced to sing in time with "Mein lieber Augustin." Her
melody passes in a sort of foolish way into Augustin; she yields and
dies away. And only by snatches there is heard again:

_"Qu'un sang impur..."_

But at once it passes very offensively into the vulgar waltz. She
submits altogether. It is Jules Favre sobbing on Bismarck's bosom
and surrendering every thing.... But at this point Augustin too grows
fierce; hoarse sounds are heard; there is a suggestion of countless
gallons of beer, of a frenzy of self-glorification, demands for
millions, for fine cigars, champagne, and hostages. Augustin passes into
a wild yell.... "The Franco-Prussian War" is over. Our circle applauded,
Yulia Mihailovna smiled, and said, "Now, how is one to turn him out?"
Peace was made. The rascal really had talent. Stepan Trofimovitch
assured me on one occasion that the very highest artistic talents may
exist in the most abominable blackguards, and that the one thing
does not interfere with the other. There was a rumour afterwards that
Lyamshin had stolen this burlesque from a talented and modest young man
of his acquaintance, whose name remained unknown. But this is beside the
mark. This worthless fellow who had hung about Stepan Trofimovitch for
years, who used at his evening parties, when invited, to mimic Jews of
various types, a deaf peasant woman making her co