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command.

      Ilyusha began in a little, clear, even voice, without stops or commas, as small children generally recite verses they have learned by heart—

      “Nine long years Don Pedro Gomez

      Has besieged the fort of Pamba,

      On a diet of milk supported.

      And Don Pedro’s gallant warriors,

      Brave Castilians, full nine thousand,

      All to keep the vow they’ve taken

      Taste no bread nor other victuals,

      Milk they drink and milk alone.”

      “What? What’s that about milk?” cried my uncle, looking at me in perplexity.

      “Go on reciting, Ilyusha!” cried Sashenka.

      “Every day Don Pedro Gomez,

      In his Spanish cloak enveloped,

      Bitterly his lot bewails.

      Lo, the tenth year is approaching;

      Still the fierce Moors are triumphant;

      And of all Don Pedro’s army

      Only nineteen men are left...”

      “Why, it’s a regular string of nonsense!” cried my uncle uneasily. “Come, that’s impossible. Only nineteen men left out of a whole army, when there was a very considerable corps before? What is the meaning of it, my boy?”

      But at that point Sasha could not contain herself, and went off into the most open and childish laughter; and though there was nothing very funny, it was impossible not to laugh too as one looked at her.

      “They are funny verses, papa,” she cried, highly delighted with her childish prank. “The author made them like that on purpose to amuse everybody.”

      “Oh! Funny!” cried my uncle, with a beaming face. “Comic, you mean! That’s just what I thought... Just so, just so, funny! And very amusing, extremely amusing: he starved all his army on milk owing to some vow. What possessed them to take such a vow? Very witty, isn’t it, Foma? You see, mamma, these are jesting verses, such as authors sometimes do write, don’t they, Sergey? Extremely amusing. Well, well, Ilyusha, what next?”

      “Only nineteen men are left!

      Them Don Pedro doth assemble

      And says to them: ‘Noble Nineteen!

      Let us raise aloft our standards!

      Let us blow on our loud trumpets!

      And with clashing of our cymbals

      Let us from Pamba retreat!

      Though the fort we have not taken,

      Yet with honour still untarnished

      We can swear on faith and conscience

      That our vow we have not broken;

      Nine long years we have not eaten,

      Not a morsel have we eaten,

      Milk we’ve drunk and milk alone!’”

      “What a noodle! What comfort was it for him that he had drunk milk for nine years?” my uncle broke in again. “What is there virtuous in it? He would have done better to have eaten a whole sheep, and not have been the death of people! Excellent! capital! I see, I see now: it’s a satire on... what do they call it? an allegory, isn’t it? And perhaps aimed at some foreign general,” my uncle added, addressing me, knitting his brows significantly and screwing up his eyes, “eh? What do you think? But of course a harmless, good, refined satire that injures nobody I Excellent! excellent, and what matters most, it is refined. Well, Ilyusha, go on. Ah, you rogues, you rogues!” he added with feeling, looking at Sasha and stealthily also at Nastenka, who blushed and smiled.

      “And emboldened by that saying,

      Those nineteen Castilian warriors,

      Each one swaying in his saddle,

      Feebly shouted all together:

      ‘Sant’ Iago Compostello!

      Fame and glory to Don Pedro!

      Glory to the Lion of Castile!’

      And his chaplain, one Diego,

      Through his teeth was heard to mutter:

      ‘But if I had been commander,

      I’d have vowed to eat meat only,

      Drinking good red wine alone.’”

      “There! Didn’t I tell you so?” cried my uncle, extremely delighted. “Only one sensible man was found in the whole army, and he was some sort of a chaplain. And what is that, Sergey: a captain among them, or what?”

      “A monk, an ecclesiastical person, uncle.”

      “Oh, yes, yes. Chaplain! I know, I remember. I have read of it in Radcliffe’s novels. They have all sorts of orders, don’t they... Benedictines, I believe?... There are Benedictines, aren’t there?”

      “Yes, uncle.”

      “H’m!... I thought so. Well, Ilyusha, what next? Excellent! capital!”

      “And Don Pedro overhearing,

      With loud laughter gave the order:

      ‘Fetch a sheep and give it to him!

      He has jested gallantly!’”

      ‘What a time to laugh! What a fool! Even he saw it was funny at last! A sheep! So they had sheep; why did he not eat some himself! Well, Ilyusha, go on. Excellent! capital! Extraordinarily cutting!”

      “But that’s the end, papa!”

      “Oh, the end. Indeed there wasn’t much left to be done— was there, Sergey? Capital, Ilyusha! Wonderfully nice. Kiss me, darling. Ah, my precious! Who was it thought of it: you, Sasha?”

      “No, it was Nastenka. We read it the other day. She read it and said: ‘What ridiculous verses! It will soon be Ilyusha’s nameday, let us make him learn them and recite them. It will make them laugh!”

      “Oh, it was Nastenka? Well, thank you, thank you,” my uncle muttered, suddenly flushing like a child. “Kiss me again, Ilyusha. You kiss me too, you rogue,” he said, embracing Sashenka and looking into her face with feeling. “You wait a bit, Sashenka, it will be your nameday soon,” he added, as though he did not know what to say to express his pleasure.

      I turned to Nastenka and asked whose verses they were.

      “Yes, yes, whose are the verses?” my uncle hurriedly chimed in. “It must have been a clever poet who wrote them, mustn’t it, Foma?”

      “H’m...” Foma grunted to himself.

      A biting sarcastic smile had not left his face during the whole time of the recitation of the verses.

      “I have really forgotten,” said Nastenka, looking timidly at Foma Fomitch.

      “It’s Mr. Kuzma Prutkov wrote it, papa; it was published in the Contemporary,” Sashenka broke in.

      “Kuzma Prutkov! I don’t know his name,” said my uncle. “Pushkin I know!... But one can see he is a gifted poet— isn’t he, Sergey? And what’s more, a man of refined qualities, that’s as clear as twice two! Perhaps, indeed, he is an officer.... I approve of him. And the Contemporary is a first-rate magazine. We certainly must take it in if poets like that are among the contributors.... I like poets! They are fine fellows! They picture everything in verse. Do you know, Sergey, I met a literary man at your rooms in Petersburg. He had rather a peculiar nose, too... really!... What did you say, Foma?”

      Foma Fomitch, who was getting more and more worked up, gave a loud snigger.

      “No,

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