dwarfs in rags, poorly armed, not heavier than a gerbe which one could lift
with a pitchfork."

For curiosity's sake, as an example of his style of fiction by which he
fascinated the Russian peasantry may serve the translation of one of the
stories: "Korniouchka Tchikhirine, an inhabitant of Moscow, a veteran,
having been drinking a little more than usual, hears that Bonaparte
is coming to Moscow, he becomes angry, scolds in coarse terms all
Frenchmen, comes out of the liquor store and under the eagle with
the two heads (the sign that the place is the crown's) he shouts:
What, he will come to us! But you are welcome! For Christmas or
carnival you are invited. The girls await you with knots in their
handkerchiefs, your head will swell. You will do well to dress as the
devil; we shall say a prayer, and you will disappear when the cock crows.
Do better, remain at home, play hide and seek or blind man's buff. Enough
of such farces! don't you see that your soldiers are cripples, dandies?
They have no touloupes, no mittens, no onoutchi (wrappings around the legs
in place of stockings). How will they adapt themselves to Russian habits?
The cabbage will make them bloated, the gruel will make them sick, and
those who survive the winter will perish by the frost at Epiphany. So it
is, yes. At our house doors they will shiver, in the vestibule they will
stand with chattering teeth; in the room they will suffocate, on the stove
they will be roasted. But what is the use of speaking? As often as the
pitcher goes to the well, as often their head will be broken. Charles of
Sweden was another imprudent one like you, of pure royal blood, he has gone
to Poltava, he has not returned. Other rabbits than you Frenchmen were the
Poles, the Tartars, the Swedes; our forefathers, however, have dealt with
them so that one can yet see the tomb-hills around Moscow, as numerous as
mushrooms, and under these mushrooms rest their bones. Ah! our holy mother
Moscow, it is not a city, it is an empire. You have left at home only the