I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.

"What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? These were your very
words."

"Who told you that they were my words?"

"Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: RELATED BY SUCH AND
SUCH A SACRISTAN."

"Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a
Moscow pedler! Did I say that? 'TWAS JUST THE SAME AS THOUGH ONE HADN'T
HIS WITS ABOUT HIM. Listen. I'll tell it to you on the spot."

We moved up to the table, and he began.

* * * *

My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten
rolls and makovniki [FOOTNOTE: Poppy-seeds cooked in honey, and dried in
square cakes.] with honey in the other world!) could tell a story
wonderfully well. When he used to begin on a tale, you wouldn't stir
from the spot all day, but keep on listening. He was no match for the
story-teller of the present day, when he begins to lie, with a tongue as
though he had had nothing to eat for three days, so that you snatch your
cap and flee from the house. As I now recall it,--my old mother was
alive then,--in the long winter evenings when the frost was crackling
out of doors, and had so sealed up hermetically the narrow panes of our
cottage, she used to sit before the hackling-comb, drawing out a long
thread in her hand, rocking the cradle with her foot, and humming a