The Crocodile Page #12

"The Crocodile" is a satirical novella by Fyodor Dostoevsky, first published in 1865. The story follows a man named Ivan Matveich, who is swallowed alive by a crocodile while visiting a zoo in St. Petersburg. Throughout the narrative, Dostoevsky explores themes of existentialism, identity, and the absurdity of human existence. As Ivan navigates his unusual circumstances, he reflects on society's reactions to his plight and the nature of life and death. The novella combines dark humor with philosophical insights, showcasing Dostoevsky's skill in blending the absurd with profound social commentary.

• Novel

								

Within the crocodile was heard nothing but laughter and a promise to flay
him (sic), though the poor mammal, compelled to swallow such a mass, was
vainly shedding tears. An uninvited guest is worse than a Tartar. But in
spite of the proverb the insolent visitor would not leave. We do not know
how to explain such barbarous incidents which prove our lack of culture
and disgrace us in the eyes of foreigners. The recklessness of the Russian
temperament has found a fresh outlet. It may be asked what was the object
of the uninvited visitor? A warm and comfortable abode? But there are many
excellent houses in the capital with very cheap and comfortable lodgings,
with the Neva water laid on, and a staircase lighted by gas, frequently
with a hall-porter maintained by the proprietor. We would call our readers'
attention to the barbarous treatment of domestic animals: it is difficult,
of course, for the crocodile to digest such a mass all at once, and now he
lies swollen out to the size of a mountain, awaiting death in insufferable
agonies. In Europe persons guilty of inhumanity towards domestic animals
have long been punished by law. But in spite of our European enlightenment,
in spite of our European pavements, in spite of the European architecture
of our houses, we are still far from shaking off our time-honoured
traditions.

    "Though the houses are new, the conventions are old."

And, indeed, the houses are not new, at least the staircases in them are
not. We have more than once in our paper alluded to the fact that in the
Petersburg Side in the house of the merchant Lukyanov the steps of the
wooden staircase have decayed, fallen away, and have long been a danger for
Afimya Skapidarov, a soldier's wife who works in the house, and is often
obliged to go up the stairs with water or armfuls of wood. At last our
predictions have come true: yesterday evening at half-past eight Afimya
Skapidarov fell down with a basin of soup and broke her leg. We do not know
whether Lukyanov will mend his staircase now, Russians are often wise after
the event, but the victim of Russian carelessness has by now been taken to
the hospital. In the same way we shall never cease to maintain that the
house-porters who clear away the mud from the wooden pavement in the
Viborgsky Side ought not to spatter the legs of passers-by, but should
throw the mud up into heaps as is done in Europe," and so on, and so on.

"What's this?" I asked in some perplexity, looking at Prohor Savvitch.
"What's the meaning of it?"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, upon my word! Instead of pitying Ivan Matveitch, they pity the
crocodile!"

"What of it? They have pity even for a beast, a mammal. We must be up to
Europe, mustn't we? They have a very warm feeling for crocodiles there too.
He-he-he!"

Saying this, queer old Prohor Savvitch dived into his papers and would not
utter another word.

I stuffed the Voice and the News-sheet into my pocket and collected as
many old copies of the newspapers as I could find for Ivan Matveitch's
diversion in the evening, and though the evening was far off, yet on this
occasion I slipped away from the office early to go to the Arcade and look,
if only from a distance, at what was going on there, and to listen to the
various remarks and currents of opinion. I foresaw that there would be a
regular crush there, and turned up the collar of my coat to meet it. I
somehow felt rather shy--so unaccustomed are we to publicity. But I feel
that I have no right to report my own prosaic feelings when faced with this
remarkable and original incident.
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