On the 13th of this present month of January, 1865, at half-past twelve in the day, Elyòna Ivànovna, the spouse of my learned friend, fellow in office, and distant connection, Ivan Matvyèich, desired to visit the crocodile which is now to be seen for a certain price in the Passage.[40] Ivan Matvyèich, having already in his pocket his ticket for a foreign tour (it was more for interest than for his health that he was going abroad), and therefore considering himself as off duty, and perfectly free for the whole morning, not only did not oppose his wife’s uncontrollable desire, but even became fired with curiosity himself. “A splendid idea,” he said contentedly; “we’ll go and see the crocodile. Before starting for Europe it is well to make oneself acquainted with its native population;” and with these words he took his wife upon his arm and instantly started off with her for the Passage. I, as usual, went along with them, in my character of family friend. I had never seen Ivan Matvyèich in a more cheerful mood than on that memorable morning. How true it is that we know not our fate beforehand! The moment we entered the Passage he went into raptures over the magnificence of the building, and when we reached the shop in which the newly arrived monster was on view, he even wished to pay the crocodile keeper the twenty-five kopecks for my entrance out of his own pocket—a thing which had never happened with him before. On entering we found ourselves in a small room, in which, besides the crocodile, were several cockatoos and a collection of monkeys in a separate cage in the background. To the left hand of the door, by the wall, stood a large tin tank, something like a bath, covered with a strong iron-wire netting, and at the bottom of it were two or three inches of water. In this shallow puddle lay an enormous crocodile, as still as a log, perfectly motionless, and appearing to have lost all his powers in our damp and, for foreigners, inhospitable climate. At first sight the monster aroused no particular interest in any of us. “So that’s the crocodile!” said Elyòna Ivànovna regretfully, in a sing-song voice. “I thought he would be ... quite different somehow.” She probably expected him to be made of diamonds. The German exhibitor, at once keeper and owner of the crocodile, who had come into the room, looked at us with an air of the greatest pride. “He’s right,” whispered Ivan Matvyèich to me; “for he knows that no one else in all Russia is exhibiting a crocodile.” I attributed this utterly senseless remark to the particularly pleasant humour that Ivan Matvyèich was in, as on the whole he was a very envious man. “I think your crocodile is dead,” said Elyòna Ivànovna, piqued by the ungraciousness of the German, and turning to him with a fascinating smile, intended to “vanquish this boor”—a peculiarly feminine manœuvre.