P R E F A C E .

"What is this nonsense: EVENINGS ON A FARM
near Dikanka? What kind of evenings are these? And
some beekeeper has flung this into the world! Thank
God! As if there were not enough geese plucked for quills and
rags wasted on paper! As if there were not enough people;
of every rank and dregs, who have stained their fingers with
ink! What possessed the beekeeper to drag himself along
after the others! Truly, so much printed paper has
proliferated that one cannot soon think of what
could be wrapped in it."

My prophetic soul heard all these remarks
a month ago! That is, I mean to say that for one of
our brotherhood, a farmer, to poke his nose out of
his backwoods into the great world—good heavens!—
it is just the same as what happens sometimes when
you enter the chambers of a great lord: everyone will
surround you and start to make a fool of you; if it were
only the high-ranking footmen, that would be nothing,
but no—some—