To-day the Grand Inquisitor came into my room, but, hearing his steps approaching, I hid myself under a chair; and not seeing me, he began to call out. First of all he called, “Poprìshchin!” I held my tongue. Then, “Aksèntyi Ivànovich! Government official! Nobleman!” I remained silent. “Ferdinand VIII., King of Spain!” I was just going to put out my head, but I thought, “No, my friend, you won’t catch me that way. I know what you are after: you’ll be pouring cold water on to my head again.” However, he saw me, and drove me out from under the chair with a stick. It’s most extraordinary how that confounded stick hurts! Ah, well! my last discovery repays me for all. I have found out that every cock has a Spain of its own hidden away under its feathers. The Grand Inquisitor went away very angry, and threatening me with some kind of punishment; but I remained completely indifferent to his impotent rage, knowing that he acts as a mere machine, as the tool of England. _Da 34 te. Month yrae February 349._ No; I can endure no more. Good God! what things they do to me! They pour cold water on to my head! They neither see, nor hear, nor understand me. What have I done to them? Why do they torment me so? Alas! what would they have of me? What can I give them, I that have nothing? It is too much; I cannot bear all this misery. My head burns, and everything whirls before me. Save me! take me! Give me steeds swifter than the hurricane. Come, come, my yamshchìk![17] Ring, my sledge-bells! Bound, my noble steeds, and bear me from this world! On, on, that I may see no more, no more! See! the heavens whirl before me; a star gleams in the distance; the forest rushes past, with the moon and the dark trees; the blue mist is unrolled beneath my feet; and through the mist I hear the vibration of a string. On one side of me is the sea, on the other side is Italy.... Ah, and there are Russian cottages! Is that my house in the blue distance? Is that my mother that sits beside the window? Oh, mother, save thy wretched son! Weep one tear over his fallen head! See how he is wronged and tormented! Clasp thy sad orphan to thy breast! He is driven and hunted down! There is no place for him on earth! Mother, have pity on thy weary child!... But _do_ you know that the Dey of Algiers has a wart just under his nose? _PORRIDGE._ BY NIKOLAI USPÈNSKY. A cart drove in at the gate of a provincial town with a village deacon[18] sitting in it, and in front, driving, his legs dangling over the shafts, a peasant in a _kaftan_.[19] “Well now, sir, who’s above the bishop?” the driver was asking. “Above the bishop is the archbishop,”[20] answered the deacon. “It is all arranged on the model of the celestial hierarchy, that I was telling you about in the posting station.”