One day Tiger was more than ever demonstrative and nearly upset me with his rough gambols, jumping to my face in fierce joy and putting a cool nose against my cheek. Just at that moment we met an old woman carrying a full pitcher of milk, much to my quadruped’s pleasure, and Tiger, his big mouth wide open and his pink tongue hungerly out, bounded towards her with loud barks of delight. The poor woman, frightened to death by Tiger’s formidable aspect, gave a violent start and dropped her jug, spilling her milk all over the pavement; Tiger licked it up with grunts of satisfaction. After having quenched his thirst, my agreeably animated dog bounced around the terrified granny, frolicking round her with an uncouth dance and yapping at her in ecstasy; he put his huge paws over her breast and insisted upon licking her face, wagging his tail conciliatingly. When visitors entered our saloon and we were not there, Tiger usually stretched himself full length across the threshold so that our visitors could not leave the room without striding over him; Tiger did not deign to budge and allow them to pass, but set up a most ominous growl like distant thunder, and when he was approached, he just opened his eyes and continued to growl until we came in and liberated the affrightened prisoners. In the spring the unveiling of the newly built monument of Poushkine, our great poet, took place; it was an event of considerable importance. A requiem in honour of the dead poet was sung on the square before the monument, covered all over with a white wrapper. It was a curious sight; a great crowd was assembled there. Amongst many deputations a group of young maidens arrayed in Russian national costumes, holding garlands of roses, especially attracted my attention. After the service ended, the military band struck up and the statue was unveiled amongst enthusiastic cheers. The mayor of the town invited me that same day to a grand banquet given in honour of the son of Poushkine, who had just been promoted to the grade of general, telling me that as an authoress I had to take part at the festival, but I refused, giving a plausible reason. Next day I went to a meeting of a literary committee treating on the works of Poushkine, held in the hall of the Assembly. On the big estrade well-known writers, and professors of the different universities gave speeches. When Tourgeneff, our famous old writer appeared, great cheers rose from the audience.