Two or three days afterwards, the Czar ordered me to be invited to a grand dinner at Apraxin’s. I went there, and so found myself in conversation with a droll little man, a Dutch Minister, and a great favourite with the Czar. The Admiral and his wife, before we sat down to eat, handed round to each of their company a glass of brandy on a plate. “What an odious custom!” whispered the little Dutch Minister, smacking his lips, however, with an air of tolerable content. “Why,” said I, prudently, “all countries have their customs. Some centuries ago, a French traveller thought it horrible in us Englishmen to eat raw oysters. But the English were in the right to eat oysters; and perhaps, by and by, so much does civilization increase, we shall think the Russians in the right to drink brandy. But really [we had now sat down to the entertainment], I am agreeably surprised here. All the guests are dressed like my own countrymen; a great decorum reigns around. If it were a little less cold, I might fancy myself in London or in Paris.” “Wait,” quoth the little Dutchman, with his mouth full of jelly broth, “wait till you hear them talk. What think you, now, that lady next me is saying?” “I cannot guess: but she has the prettiest smile in the world; and there is something at once so kind and so respectful in her manner that I should say she was either asking some great favour, or returning thanks for one.” “Right,” cried the little Minister, “I will interpret for you. She is saying to that old gentleman, ‘Sir, I am extremely grateful--and may Saint Nicholas bless you for it--for your very great kindness in having, the day before yesterday, at your sumptuous entertainment, made me so deliciously--drunk!’” “You are witty, Monsieur,” said I, smiling. “_Se non e vero e ben trovato_.” “By my soul, it is true,” cried the Dutchman; “but, hush!--see, they are going to cut up that great pie.” I turned my eyes to the centre of the table, which was ornamented with a huge pasty. Presently it was cut open, and out--walked a hideous little dwarf. “Are they going to eat him?” said I. “Ha! ha!” laughed the Dutchman. “No! this is a fashion of the Czar’s, which the Admiral thinks it good policy to follow. See, it tickles the hebete Russians. They are quite merry on it.” “To be sure,” said I; “practical jokes are the only witticisms savages understand.” “Ay, and if it were not for such jokes now and then, the Czar would be odious beyond measure; but dwarf pies and mock processions make his subjects almost forgive him for having shortened their clothes and clipped their beards.” “The Czar is very fond of those mock processions?”