“What silly things you think about, you frivolous rattlepate! I tell you of great ideas and you.... Know then, that I am sufficiently nourished with the great ideas that illumine the night which surrounds me. For the rest, the good-natured keeper of the monster has talked the matter over with his kind-hearted mother, and they have decided together that every morning they will introduce into the jaws of the crocodile a curved metallic tube, something like a shepherd’s pipe, through which I am to suck coffee or broth with white bread soaked in it. The tube has already been ordered from a neighbouring shop, but I consider that this is superfluous luxury. I hope to live, at the least, a thousand years, if it be true that crocodiles live so long (by the by, you had better look that up to-morrow in some book on natural history and let me know, for I may have made a mistake and confused the crocodile with some other fossil). One consideration alone somewhat disturbs me. As I am dressed in cloth and have boots on my feet, the crocodile is, evidently, unable to digest me; moreover, I am alive and resist the digesting of myself with all my force of will; for, naturally, I do not wish to turn into what all food turns into, as that would be too humiliating. But I fear one thing: in the course of a thousand years the cloth of my coat (which, unfortunately, is of Russian manufacture) may decay, and I, remaining without clothes, may then, notwithstanding all my indignation, begin to be digested; and, although by day I shall not permit—shall not under any circumstances allow this,—by night, in sleep, when man is deprived of his free will, I may be overtaken by the most humiliating doom of a mere potato, pancake, or slice of veal. The thought of this drives me to frenzy. If only on this ground the Revenue law must be changed in order to encourage the importation of English cloth, which is stronger, and therefore will resist nature longer in cases of persons tumbling into crocodiles. I shall take the earliest opportunity of communicating this idea to some statesman, and also to the political critics of our St. Petersburg daily papers. They can cry it up. I hope that this will not be the only idea they will take from me. I foresee that every morning a whole assembly of them, armed with editorial twenty-five kopeck pieces, will crowd around me, to catch my thoughts upon the telegrams of the day before. In short, the future appears to me in quite a rose-coloured light.” “High fever, high fever!” I whispered to myself. “But, my friend, what about liberty?” I asked, wishing to hear all he had to say upon that point. “You see, you are, as it were, in a dungeon, whereas man should enjoy freedom.” “You are stupid,” he replied. “Savages care for independence, but wise men love only order, and there is no order——” “Ivan Matvyèich, have a little pity on me!”