I was seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We went to the captain of police because we had to see him about something, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. It’s their liver.
I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, ‘ Mr. Ispravnik,’ said I, ‘be our Napravnik.’
‘What do you mean by Napravnik?’ said he.
I saw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so glum. ‘I wanted to make a joke,’ said I, ‘for the general diversion, as Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is someone of that sort.’ And I explained my comparison very reasonably, didn’t I?
‘Excuse me,’ said he, ‘I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.’
He turned and walked away. I followed him, shouting, ‘Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘since you called me a Napravnik I am one.’
And would you believe it, it ruined our business!
And I’m always like that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my politeness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: ‘Your wife is a ticklish lady,’ in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities, so to speak. But he asked me, ‘Why, have you tickled her?’ I thought I’d be polite, so I couldn’t help saying, ‘Yes,’ and he gave me a fine tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I’m not ashamed to tell the story. I’m