He knows that there are phenomena of life which the devil himself is not able to rail at; for example, he has never applied the sharp scalpel of his irony to the majestic fact of his existence. To tell the truth, our favourite devil is more bold than clever, and if we were to look more closely at him, we might discover that, like ourselves, he wastes most of his time on trifles. But we had better leave that alone; we are not children that break their best toys in order to discover what is in them. The devil once wandered over the cemetery in the darkness of an autumn night: he felt lonely and whistled softly as he looked around himself in search of a distraction. He whistled an old song--my father’s favourite song,-- “When, in autumnal days, A leaf from its branch is torn And on high by the wind is borne.” And the wind sang with him, soughing over the graves and among the black crosses, and heavy autumnal clouds slowly crawled over the heaven and with their cold tears watered the narrow dwellings of the dead. The mournful trees in the cemetery timidly creaked under the strokes of the wind and stretched their bare branches to the speechless clouds. The branches were now and then caught by the crosses, and then a dull, shuffling, awful sound passed over the churchyard.... The devil was whistling, and he thought: “I wonder how the dead feel in such weather! No doubt, the dampness goes down to them, and although they are secure against rheumatism ever since the day of their death, yet, I suppose, they do not feel comfortable. How, if I called one of them up and had a talk with him? It would be a little distraction for me, and, very likely, for him also. I will call him! Somewhere around here they have buried an old friend of mine, an author.... I used to visit him when he was alive ... why not renew our acquaintance? People of his kind are dreadfully exacting. I shall find out whether the grave satisfies him completely. But where is his grave?” And the devil who, as is well known, knows everything, wandered for a long time about the cemetery, before he found the author’s grave.... “Oh there!” he called out as he knocked with his claws at the heavy stone under which his acquaintance was put away. “Get up!” “What for?” came the dull answer from below. “I need you.” “I won’t get up.” “Why?” “Who are you, anyway?” “You know me.” “The censor?” “Ha, ha, ha! No!” “Maybe a secret policeman?” “No, no!” “Not a critic, either?” “I am the devil.” “Well, I’ll be out in a minute.”