r Yevmeny, that delightful little old man, sat
down by me, and looking tearfully at me kept babbling something
like a child. I did not understand what he said, but I know how to
understand true feeling. The police captain, the handsome man of
whom I wrote to you, went down on his knees to me, tried to read
me some verses of his own composition (he is a poet), but . . . his
feelings were too much for him, he lurched and fell over . . . that
huge giant went into hysterics, you can imagine my delight! The day
did not pass without a hitch, however. Poor Alalykin, the president
of the judges' assembly, a stout and apoplectic man, was overcome
by illness and lay on the sofa in a state of unconsciousness for
two hours. We had to pour water on him. . . . I am thankful to
Doctor Dvornyagin: he had brought a bottle of brandy from his
dispensary and he moistened the patient's temples, which quickly
revived him, and he was able to be moved. . . ."

A BAD BUSINESS

"WHO goes there?"

No answer. The watchman sees nothing, but through the roar of the
wind and the trees distinctly hears someone walking along the avenue
ahead of him. A March night, cloudy and foggy, envelopes the earth,
and it seems to the watchman that the earth, the sky, and he himself
with his thoughts are all merged together into something vast and
impenetrably black. He can only grope his way.

"Who goes there?" the watchman repeats, and he begins to fancy that
he hears whispering and smothered laughter. "Who's there?"

"It's I, friend . . ." answers an old man's voice.

"But who are you?"

"I . . . a traveller."

"What sort of traveller?" the watchman cries angrily, trying to
disguise his terror by shouting. "What the devil do you want here?
You go prowling about the graveyard at night, you ruffian!"

"You don't say it's a graveyard here?"

"Why, what else? Of course it's the graveyard! Don't you see it
is?"

"O-o-oh . . . Queen of Heaven!" there is a sound of an old man
sighing. "I see nothing, my good soul, nothing. Oh the darkness,
the darkness! You can't see your hand before your face, it is dark,
friend. O-o-oh. . ."

"But who are you?"

"I am a pilgrim, friend, a wandering man."

"The devils, the nightbirds. . . . Nice sort of pilgrims! They are
drunkards . . ." mutters the watchman, reassured by the tone and
sighs of the stranger. "One's tempted to sin by you. They drink the
day away and prowl about at night. But I fancy I heard you we