since my imprisonment under The Leads, I had been
subject to haemorrhoids, which came on three or four times a year. At St.
Petersburg I had a serious attack, and the daily pain and anxiety
embittered my existence. A vegetarian doctor called Senapios, for whom I
had sent, gave me the sad news that I had a blind or incomplete fistula
in the rectum, and according to him nothing but the cruel pistoury would
give me any relief, and indeed he said I had no time to lose. I had to
agree, in spite of my dislike to the operation; but fortunately the
clever surgeon whom the doctor summoned pronounced that if I would have
patience nature itself would give me relief. I had much to endure,
especially from the severe dieting to which I was subjected, but which
doubtless did me good.

Colonel Melissino asked me to be present at a review which was to take
place at three versts from St. Petersburg, and was to be succeeded by a
dinner to twenty-four guests, given by General Orloff. I went with the
prince, and saw a cannon fired twenty times in a minute, testing the
performance with my watch.

My neighbour at dinner was the French ambassador. Wishing to drink
deeply, after the Russian fashion, and thinking the Hungarian wine as
innocent as champagne, he drank so bravely that at the end of dinner he
had lost the use of his legs. Count Orloff made him drink still more, and
then he fell asleep and was laid on a bed.

The gaiety of the meal gave me some idea of Russian wit. I did not
understand the language, so M. Zinowieff translated the curious sallies
to me while the applause they had raised was still resounding.

Melissino rose to his feet, holding a large goblet full of Hungarian wine
in his hand. There was a general silence to listen to him. He drank the
health of General Orloff in these words:

"May you die when you become rich."

The applause was general, for the allusion was to the unbounded
generosity of Orloff. The general's reply struck me as better still, but
it was equally rugged in character. He, too, took a full cup, and turning
to Melissino, said,

"May you never die till I slay you!"

The applause was furious, for he was their host and their general.

The Russian wit is of the energetic kind, devoid of grace; all they care
about is directness and vigour.

Voltaire had just sent the empress his "Philosophy of History," which he
had written for her and dedicated to her. A month after, an edition of
three thousand c