Interesting and Humour - page 2696
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Here is perhaps the most accurate description of the further development of the global financial crisis:
Mark Twain
Cannibalism on the train
Not long ago I went to St. Louis; on the way to the West at one of the stations, already after a change in Terahot, in the state of Indiana, a friendly, good-natured-looking gentleman of about forty-five or fifty entered our car and sat down next to me. For about an hour we talked about all sorts of subjects, and he turned out to be an intelligent and interesting conversationalist.
Hearing that I was from Washington, he immediately began to question me about prominent statesmen, about affairs in Congress, and I soon became convinced that I was talking with a man who knew perfectly well all the mechanics of the political life of the capital, all the subtleties of the parliamentary procedure of both our legislative chambers. . By chance, two people stopped for a second near our bench, and we heard a snippet of their conversation:
“Harris, my friend, do me this service, I will remember you forever ...
At these words, the eyes of my new acquaintance suddenly sparkled with joy. “It seems that they brought back some very pleasant memories for him,” I thought.
But then his face became thoughtful and gloomy.
He turned to me and said:
– Let me tell you one story, to reveal to you the secret page of my life; I haven't touched her once since those distant events happened. Listen carefully - promise not to interrupt.
I promised, and he told me the following amazing incident; his voice sometimes sounded inspired, sometimes sadness was heard in it, but every word from the first to the last was imbued with sincerity and great feeling.
_STRANGER_STORY_
So, on December 19, 1853, I left on the Chicago evening train for St. Louis. There were twenty-four passengers on the train, all men. No women, no children. The mood was excellent, and soon everyone got to know each other. The journey promised to be most pleasant; and I remember that none of us had the slightest premonition that soon we would have to experience something truly nightmarish.
At eleven o'clock in the evening a snowstorm arose.
We passed the tiny village of Welden, and beyond the windows to the right and left stretched endless desolate prairies, where you will not find habitation for many miles until the Jubilee Settlement. Nothing prevented the wind on this plain - neither the forest, nor the mountains, nor the lonely rocks, and it blew furiously, spinning the snow, resembling shreds of foam that fly in a storm over the sea. The white veil grew every minute; the train slowed down, - it was felt that it was more and more difficult for the steam engine to make its way forward. Every now and then we stopped among the huge white ramparts that stood in our way like gigantic graves. Conversations began to fall silent. The recent revival has given way to gloomy concern.
We suddenly imagined clearly that we could find ourselves trapped in the snow in the middle of this icy desert, fifty miles from the nearest habitation.
At two o'clock in the morning, a strange feeling of complete immobility brought me out of an anxious slumber. A terrible thought instantly came to mind: we were skidded! "All to the rescue!" - it swept through the cars, and as one we rushed to fulfill the order. We jumped out of warm cars straight into the cold, into impenetrable darkness; the wind burned our faces, the snow fell like a wall, but we knew that a second of delay threatened us all with death. Shovels, hands, boards - everything went into action. It was a strange, semi-fantastic picture: a handful of people fighting with snowdrifts growing before our eyes, bustling figures now disappearing into the blackness of the night, then appearing in the red, alarming light from the locomotive lantern.
It took only one short hour that we realized the futility of our efforts. Before we had time to scatter one snowy mountain, the wind swept dozens of new ones on the road. But something else was worse: during the last decisive attack on the enemy, our steam engine burst the longitudinal axis. If we cleared it, we wouldn't be able to move here. Exhausted, dejected, we dispersed to the carriages. We sat down closer to the fire and began to discuss the situation. The worst thing was that we didn't have any provisions. We could not freeze: on a steam locomotive, a full tender of firewood is our only consolation. In the end, everyone agreed with the conductor's disappointing conclusion, which said that any of us would die if we ventured fifty miles in such weather. So, there is nothing to count on for help, send do not send - all to no avail.
There is only one thing left: to wait patiently and humbly - a miraculous salvation or starvation. It is clear that even the most courageous heart must have trembled at these words.
An hour passed, loud conversations ceased, in short moments of calm, muffled whispers were heard here and there; the flames in the lamps began to die out, quivering shadows crawled along the walls; and the unfortunate captives, huddled in the corners, plunged into meditation, trying as much as possible to forget about the present, or to fall asleep if sleep came.
The endless night lasted for an eternity - it really seemed to us that there would be no end to it - slowly waned hour after hour, and at last a gray, icy dawn broke in the east. It was getting lighter, the passengers were moving, they were bustling about - he straightens his hat that has fallen on his forehead, this one stretches his stiff arms and legs, and everyone, barely awake, is drawn to the windows. The same bleak picture opens before our eyes. Alas, unfortunate! There are no signs of life, no haze, no ruts, only a boundless white desert, where the wind is walking in the open, snow is rolling in waves, and myriads of swirling snow flakes cover the sky with a thick veil.
All day we wandered around the carriages in despondency, spoke little, were more silent and thought. Another weary, endless night and hunger.
Another dawn - another day of silence, longing, debilitating hunger, senseless waiting for help, which has nowhere to come. At night, in deep sleep. - holiday tables bursting with food; in the morning - a bitter awakening and again the pangs of hunger.
The fourth day came and passed; the fifth has arrived! Five days in this terrible confinement! Fear of hunger hid in everyone's eyes. And there was something in their expression that made them shudder: their eyes betrayed something, as yet unconscious, that rose in each chest and that no one had yet dared to utter.
The sixth day passed, the dawn of the seventh dawned on the emaciated, exhausted, desperate people, on whom the shadow of death had already fallen. And the time has come! The unconscious that grew in every heart was ready to break from every mouth. Too great a test for human nature, to endure unbearable longer. Richard H. Gaston of Minnesota, tall, pale, skeletal, rose from his seat. We knew what he was going to talk about, and prepared ourselves: every feeling, every sign of excitement is hidden deep; in the eyes that had just burned with madness, there was only concentrated stern calmness.
- Gentlemen! You can't delay any longer. Time does not endure. You and I must now decide which of us will die in order to feed the rest.
Mr. John D. Williams of Illinois followed:
“Gentlemen, I am nominating the Reverend James Sawyer of Tennessee.
Mr. W. R. Adams of Indiana said:
“I propose Mr. Daniel Sloat of New York.
Mr. Charles D. Langdon. Nominating Mr. Samuel A. Bowen of St. Louis.
Mr Sloat. Gentlemen, I would like to withdraw my candidacy in favor of Mr. John A. Van Nostrand, Jr. of New Jersey.
Mr Gaston. If there is no objection, Mr. Sloat's request can be granted.
Mr. Van Nostrand objected, and Daniel Slot's request was denied. Messrs. Sawyer and Bowen also recused themselves; their self-withdrawal, on the same grounds, was not accepted.
Mr. A. L. Bascom of Ohio. I propose to draw a line and go to the secret ballot.
Mr Sawyer. Gentlemen, I strongly object to this conduct of the meeting.
This is against all rules. I demand that the meeting be adjourned. It is necessary, firstly, to elect a chairman, then, to help him, deputies. Then we will be able to properly consider the issue before us, realizing that we have not violated a single parliamentary regulation.
Mr Bill from Iowa. Lord, I protest. This is neither the time nor the place to make ceremonies and insist on mere formalities. We haven't had a crumb in our mouths for seven days now. Every second spent in empty bickering only doubles our agony. As for me, I am quite satisfied with the candidates named, as, it seems, everyone present; and I, for my part, declare that it is necessary to proceed without delay to voting and to elect one of them, although ... however, several at once are possible. I submit the following resolution...
Mr Gaston. There may be objections to the resolution; in addition, according to the procedure, we will be able to accept it only after a day from the moment of reading. This will only cause, Mr. Bill, a delay so undesirable for you. The floor is given to a gentleman from New Jersey.
Mr Van Nostrand. Gentlemen, I am a stranger among you, and I did not at all seek for myself such a high honor as you have shown me. You know, I feel uncomfortable...
Mr. Morgan from Alabama (interrupting).
I support the proposal of Mr. Sawyer! The proposal was put to the vote, and the debate, as expected, was closed. The proposal passed, Mr. Gaston was elected chairman, Mr. Blake secretary, Messrs. Holcombe, Dyer, and Baldwin were on the nominating committee, and R. M. Holman, a food purveyor by profession, was elected to assist the committee.
A half-hour break was announced, the commission retired for a meeting. At the knock of the chairman's gavel, the meeting participants again took their places, the commission read out the list. Among the candidates were Messrs. George Fergusson of Kentucky, Lucien Herrman of Louisiana, and W. Messin of Colorado. The list as a whole was approved.
Mister Rogers from Missouri.
Mr President, I am making the following amendment to the report of the commission, which this time has been submitted to the House for consideration in accordance with all the rules of procedure. I suggest that instead of Mr. Herrmann, the well-known and well-respected Mr. Harris of St. Louis be added to the list. Gentlemen, it would be a mistake to think that I question for a moment the high moral character and social position of the Louisiana gentleman, far from it. I treat him with as much respect as any other member of our congregation. But we must not close our eyes to the fact that this gentleman lost much more weight during our stay here; none of us has the right to turn a blind eye to the fact, gentlemen, that the commission - I don't know if it was simply through negligence, or from some unseemly motives - neglected its duties and put to the vote a gentleman in whom, no matter how pure his thoughts, too few nutrients...
Chairman. Mister Rogers, I take your word away. I cannot allow the honesty of the committee members to be questioned. I ask you to submit all dissatisfaction and complaints for consideration in strict accordance with the rules of procedure. What is the opinion of those present on this amendment?
Mr Holliday from Virginia. I'm making one more correction. I propose that Mr. Messick be replaced by Mr. Harvey Davis of Oregon. It may be objected that the hardships and hardships of life in the distant suburbs have made Mr. Davis's flesh too hard. But, gentlemen, is it time to pay attention to such trifles as insufficient softness? Is it time to find fault with such insignificant trifles? Is it time to be overly picky? Volume - that's what interests us first of all, volume, weight and mass - now these are the highest virtues. What is education, what talent, even genius. I insist on an amendment.
Mr Morgan (getting excited). Mr. Chairman, I protest in the strongest terms against the latest amendment. The gentleman from Oregon is no longer young. Its volume is large, I do not argue, but it is all bones, by no means meat. Perhaps the gentleman from Virginia will have enough broth, I personally prefer more dense food. Is he mocking us, is he trying to feed us with a shadow? Is he laughing at our suffering by slipping us this Oregon ghost? I ask him how it is possible to look at these pleading faces, into these sorrowful eyes, how it is possible to hear the impatient beating of our hearts and at the same time impose this starved deceiver on us. I ask Mr. Holliday if, remembering our plight, our past sufferings, our hopeless future, is it possible, I ask, to so obstinately push us this ruin, these living relics, this bony, diseased monkey from inhospitable coast of Oregon? You can't, gentlemen, you can't. (Applause.)
The amendment was put to the vote and, after a heated debate, was rejected. As to the first proposal, it was accepted, and Mr. Harris was put on the list of candidates. Voting has begun. Five times they voted without any result, on the sixth they chose Harris: everyone voted in favor; "against" was only Mr. Harris himself. It was proposed to vote again: the first candidate was to be elected unanimously, but this did not succeed, for this time too Harris voted against it.
Mr. Radway suggested that we move on to discussing the next candidates and choosing someone for breakfast. The offer was accepted.
They began to vote. The opinions of those present were divided - half supported the candidacy of Mr. Fergusson because of his young age, the other insisted on the election of Mr. Messick, as a larger one. The President spoke in favor of the latter, his vote was decisive. This turn of affairs caused serious displeasure in the camp of supporters of the defeated Fergusson, the question of a new vote was raised, but someone suggested closing the evening meeting in time, and everyone quickly dispersed.
The preparations for dinner captured the attention of the Ferguson faction, and for the time being they forgot their chagrins. When they again began to complain about the injustice committed against them, the happy news arrived in time that Mr. Harris was filed, and all their insults were removed as if by magic.
We used seat backs as tables; with hearts filled with gratitude, we sat down to dinner, the splendor of which surpassed everything created by our imagination during the seven days of hungry torture. How we have changed in these few short hours! Even at noon - dull, hopeless sorrow; hunger, feverish despair; and now - what a sweet languor on the faces, in the eyes of gratitude - bliss is so complete that there are no words to describe it. Yes, those were the happiest moments of my eventful life. Outside, a blizzard howled, the wind tossing snow against the walls of our prison. But now neither the snow nor the blizzard were afraid of us. I liked Harris. It probably could have been better prepared, but I assure you that no person has pleased me to such an extent, no one has aroused such pleasant feelings in me. Messick was also not bad, though with a certain flavor. But Harris ... I certainly prefer him for his high nutritional value and some especially tender meat. Messick had his virtues, I do not want and will not deny them, but, to be honest, he was no more suitable for breakfast than a mummy. The meat is tough, lean; so tough you can't chew it! You can't even imagine it, you've just never eaten anything like it.
“Excuse me, did you mean…
Do me a favor, don't interrupt. For dinner we chose a gentleman from Detroit named Walker.
He was excellent. I even wrote about it later to his wife. Above all praise. Even now, as I remember, saliva flows. Is that just a little underdone, and so very, very good. The next day for breakfast. Morgan from Alabama.
A beautiful soul, a man, never had to taste anything like it: handsome in appearance, educated, excellent manners, knew several foreign languages - in a word, a true gentleman. Yes, yes, a true gentleman, and, moreover, unusually juicy. For dinner, they served the same ancient old man from Oregon. That's really who really turned out to be a worthless deceiver - old, skinny, hard as a bast, it's hard to even believe. I couldn't resist:
“Gentlemen,” I said, “as you wish, I'll wait for the next one.
Grimes from Illinois immediately joined me:
"Gentlemen," he said, "I'll wait too." When a person is elected who has any reason to be elected, I will be glad to join you again.
It soon became clear to everyone that Davis of Oregon was no good, and, to maintain the good spirits that had reigned in our company after Harris was eaten, a new election was called, and Baker of Georgia was our choice this time. That's what we enjoyed! Well, then we ate one after the other Dolittle, Hawkins, McElroy (there were displeasures - too small and thin), then Penrod, two Smiths, Bailey (Bailey had one leg made of wood, which, of course, was very inopportune, but in otherwise he was not bad), then they ate an Indian youth, then an organ grinder and a gentleman named Buckminster - the most boring gentleman was, without any merit, besides, very mediocre taste, it’s good that they managed to eat him before help came.
- Oh, so, it means that help came - Well, yes, it came - one fine sunny morning, immediately after the vote. The choice fell on John Murphy that day, and I swear it couldn't have been better. But John Murphy came home with us safe and sound, on the train that came to the rescue.
And when he returned, he married the widow of Mr. Harris ...
"Harrica?!"
- Well, yes, the same Harris, who was our first chosen one. And imagine - happy, rich, respected by everyone! Ah, so romantic, just like in the books. And here is my stop. I wish you a happy journey. If you choose the time, come to me for a day or two, I will be happy to see you. I liked you, sir. I'm really attracted to you. I love you, believe me, no less than Harris. All the best to you, sir. Have a nice trip.
He left. I was shocked, upset, embarrassed like never before in my life. And at the same time, in the depths of my soul, I was relieved that this person was no longer with me. In spite of his gentleness and courtesy, I was always chilled with frost when he fixed his greedy eyes on me, and when I heard that he liked him and that in his eyes I was no worse than poor Harris - peace be upon him - I was literally terrified.
I was completely confused. I believed every word he said. I simply could not doubt the authenticity of this story, told with such genuine sincerity; but its terrible details stunned me, and I could not put my disordered thoughts in order. Then I noticed that the conductor was looking at me, and I asked him:
- Who is this person?
“Once he was a member of Congress, and, moreover, respected by all. But one day the train in which he was traveling somewhere got into a snow drift, and he almost died of hunger. He was so hungry, cold and frostbitten that he fell ill and was out of his mind for two or three months. Now he is nothing, healthy, only he has one obsession: as soon as he touches on his favorite topic, he will talk until he eats the whole company.
Even now he would not spare anyone, but the stop prevented. And he remembers all the names by heart, he will never go astray. Having dealt with the latter, he usually ends his speech like this: “It's time to choose the next candidate for breakfast; in view of the absence of other proposals, this time I was elected, after which I recused myself - naturally, there were no objections, my request was granted. And here I am, in front of you."
How easy it was for me to breathe again! So, everything told is just the harmless ravings of an unfortunate lunatic, and not a genuine adventure of a bloodthirsty cannibal.
Chinese authorities suspect robot in stock market crash
http://lenta.ru/news/2015/07/14/chinasoftware/
85% of investors on PRC stock exchanges are individuals, ordinary citizens. In other words, the fate of the market is largely determined by non-professionals, whose numbers are staggering, as is everything in China - there are over 90 million of them!
http://www.novayagazeta.ru/economy/69159.html
85% of investors on PRC exchanges are individuals, ordinary citizens. In other words, the fate of the market is largely determined by non-professionals, whose numbers are staggering, as is everything in China - there are over 90 million of them!
http://www.novayagazeta.ru/economy/69159.html
I wonder, if the bubble in the Chinese stock market continues to deflate, at what point will China begin to uncontrollably drain all the American bills and exchange them for gold? This avalanche will completely evaporate and bury the euro, the dollar, the pound and all paper money in general!
85% of investors on PRC exchanges are individuals, ordinary citizens. In other words, the fate of the market is largely determined by non-professionals, whose numbers are staggering, as is everything in China - there are over 90 million of them!
http://www.novayagazeta.ru/economy/69159.html
The journalist is a fool. Those 85% of private investors may have, for example, 5% of the total market capitalisation.
So what?
I wonder, if the bubble in the Chinese stock market continues to deflate, at what point will China begin to uncontrollably drain all of the U.S. notes and exchange them for gold? This avalanche will vaporise and bury the euro, the dollar, the pound and all paper money in general!
The Chinese bubble bursts, the yuan collapses, the question is why would China dump US government bonds in exchange for gold? What is the logic behind that?
One fact is that if China collapses, the US dollar will rise. And what is the logic for a country in an economic crisis to exchange US government bonds for gold?
The journalist is a fool. That 85% of private investors might have, for example, 5% of the total market capitalisation.
So what?
The Chinese bubble bursts, the yuan collapses, the question is why would China dump US government bonds in exchange for gold? What is the logic behind that?
The fact is that if China collapses, the US dollar will rise. And what is the logic for a country in an economic crisis to exchange US government bonds for gold?
Here is perhaps the most accurate description of the further development of the global financial crisis:
Mark Twain
Ogriculture on a train
And here's just Mark Twain, without regard to the crisis:
"Cut it, brothers, cut it!"
Would you be so kind, reader, to look at these verses and tell me if you find anything malignant in them?
"Conductor, going forth,
Don't cut your tickets anyhow,
Cut them with a caring hand:
Here's your passenger, here's your companion!
A pack of blue ones for eight cents,
A pack of yellow ones for six cents,
A pack of pink ones for only three!
Careful cutting, look!"
"Cut it, brothers, cut it, cut it carefully!
Cut it, you're a passenger on the road!"
I recently came across these resounding verses in a newspaper and read them twice. They instantly and completely captivated me. At breakfast they kept rushing through my head, and when I finally finished and rolled up my napkin, I positively could not say whether I had eaten something or not. The day before I had meticulously plotted out a stormy tragedy in the story I was now writing, and now I retired to my den to begin the bloody description. I picked up my pen, but there was no way around it. It turned out that all I could write was, "Here's a passenger, here's your companion!" I thought persistently for an hour, but to no avail at all. It buzzed incessantly in my head, "A packet of blue ones for eight cents, a packet of yellow ones for six cents"... etc., etc., giving me no rest, no time limit. The day was gone for me, that much was clear. I left the house and started wandering around town, and I noticed that my feet were moving to the beat of this nonsense. It was unbearable, so I changed my gait; but nothing helped: the verses adapted to the new gait and still tormented me. I returned home and suffered all day, suffered over the unconsciously eaten and unfortunate dinner, suffered and cried and muttered this nonsense all evening; went to bed and kept tossing and turning and muttering still; at midnight I got up furious and tried to read, but nothing could be made out in the bouncing lines, except: "Cut - there's a road passenger in front of you!" By dawn I was completely distraught and all the household were surprised and alarmed, listening to my idiotic babble: "Cut it, brothers, cut it... Oh, cut it! There's a road passenger in front of you!"
Two days later, on Saturday morning, I, all broken and raspy, left the house, having received an invitation from my worthy friend, his Reverend Mr. ***, to walk with him ten miles out of town to Talpot Towers. He looked at me, but said nothing. We set off. Mr *** talked and talked and talked, in his usual habit, I said nothing, heard nothing. At the end of the first mile, Mr *** said:
- Mark, are you not feeling well? I've never seen a man more haggard looking and more distracted. Say something! Come on!
Dryly, without animation, I said:
"Cut, brethren, cut, cut carefully!
Cut it, there's a road passenger in front of you!"
My friend looked at me with embarrassment and said:
- I don't understand your intention, Mark. There seems to be nothing wrong with what you say, no preconceived purpose, but perhaps it depends on the tone with which you speak; I have never heard anything more startling. Which is...
But I was no longer listening, I had already mouthed my merciless soul-wrenching, "A pack of blue ones for eight cents, a pack of yellow ones for six cents, a pack of pink ones for only three! Careful cutting, look..."
I don't know what happened as we walked the other nine miles, only Mr *** suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and shouted:
- Oh, wake up, wake up! Stop raving. We had already come to the Towers. I kept talking, talking till I was numb, deaf, blind - and not once did I get an answer. - Look at this lovely autumn landscape. Look at it, look at it. Look at it! You have travelled and seen many glorious lands. Tell me your opinion, honestly and impartially, how you find this place.
I sighed heavily and muttered:
"A pack of yellows for six cents,
A pack of pink ones for three!
Careful cutting, look!"
'His Reverend was very serious, full of concern... He looked at me for a long time.
- Mark," he said at last, "there's something here that I don't understand. It's almost the same words you said before, as if there were nothing special in them, and yet they almost break my heart when you say them. "Cut, in front of you"... how do you say it?
I started again and repeated all the verses. My friend's face expressed keen interest. He said:
- What a captivating sound that is! It is almost music. How smoothly they flow! I almost learned the verses. Say them again. Then I'll probably remember them.
I said. Mr. *** repeated them. He made one small mistake, which I corrected, the next two times he had already said it correctly. A huge burden was then lifted from my shoulders. That agonising codswallop flew away from my brain and a pleasant feeling of peace and tranquillity descended on me. I felt so light that I began to sing, and sang on the way back for half an hour. My tongue, freed from its pressure, had again mastered the blessed speech, and the words, held back for a long time, gushed out and poured from it. They poured out cheerfully and joyfully until the source dried up and dried out.
- Wasn't this a royal time," I said, turning to my friend and shaking his hand. - But now I recall that you did not say a word for two hours. Say something, say something, would you?
The Reverend Mr. *** looked at me with troubled eyes, sighed deeply and said without spirit, without apparent consciousness:
- Cut it, brothers, cut it, cut it gently, cut it - you've got a road passenger in front of you.
I felt a twinge of remorse and muttered to myself: "Poor guy, now it's gone to him."
After that I didn't see Mr. *** for three or four days. On Tuesday night he came to me and collapsed in an armchair, exhausted. He was pale, exhausted, shattered. Staring his lifeless eyes at my face, he said:
- Ah, Mark, an unprofitable con I have done with these heartless poems. They have haunted me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after hour, until this very minute. Since our walk, I have endured the torment of an outcast. On Saturday night I was suddenly summoned by telegraph to Boston and went there with the overnight train. The reason for the summons was the death of an old friend of mine who wished me to say a eulogy over him. I boarded the carriage and began to compose a speech, but it went no further than the introduction, as the train moved on and the wheels began their monotonous song: "clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack," and instantly the hateful poems joined the accompaniment. For a whole hour I sat there, fitting individual syllables and words of verse to each clack of wagon wheels. I was as exhausted as if I had been chopping wood all day. My skull was ready to crack from the headache. I thought I would go mad if this went on. So I undressed and went to bed. I stretched out on the sofa, and of course you can understand what the result was: the same thing continued here: "Clack-clack-clack a pack of blue, clack-clack eight cents, clack-clack-clack a pack of yellow, clack-clack-clack for six cents, etc. etc. Careful cutting, look!" Sleep? Not a second. I came to Boston as some kind of lunatic. Don't ask me about the funeral. I did the best I could, but every single solemn phrase was jumbled, twisted with the words, "Cut, brothers, cut, cut carefully. Cut, there's a road passenger in front of you!" And the worst part was that the words of the service were completely lost in the stirring rhymes of these verses, and I even noticed people nodding absent-mindedly at them with their silly heads and, believe it or not, Mark, before I had finished, the whole crowd was quietly nodding their heads in solemn unity: the undertakers, the seeing off, everyone, everyone. When I had finished I ran out into the front room in a state of near insanity. There I had the good fortune of bumping into the grieving aunt of the deceased, an old maid who had come from Springfeld and was late for church. She began to weep and said: - Oh, oh, he's dead, he's dead, and I didn't see him before he died!
- Yes," I said, "he died, he died, he died, he died... oh, will this torment never cease!
- Then you loved him too? Oh, you loved him too!
- Loved him! Loved who?
- But my poor George, my poor nephew.
- Oh, him! Oh, yes, yes! Oh, yes, yes! Of course, of course. Cut, cut... Oh, this torment will kill me!
- Bless you, bless you for those light words! I, too, suffer this dear loss. Were you present at his last moments?
- Yes, I... Whose last moments?
- His, the dearly departed.
- Yes, oh, yes, yes, yes. I suppose, I think, I don't know! Oh, yes, of course. I was there, I was there.
- Oh, what an advantage! What a precious advantage to me! And his last words? Tell me his last words. What did he say?
- He said, he said... oh, my head, my head! He said... he said only: "Cut, brothers, cut... cut - there's a road passenger in front of you"!..! Oh, leave me, Madam, in the name of all that is holy, leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair...! A packet of yellows for six cents, a packet of pinks only three... I can't stand it any longer... cut it, there's a road passenger in front of you!
My friend's hopeless eyes stared at me for a moment, then he said in a piercing voice:
- Mark, you say nothing, you give me no hope? But, alas, it's all the same, it's all the same. You can't help me. Long gone are the days when I could be comforted by words. Something tells me that my tongue is condemned forever to repeat these unutterable verses. Here, here... again, again... A packet of blue eight cents, a packet of yellow..." his muttering grew quieter and quieter. My friend fell into a peaceful slumber and forgot his suffering in a blessed slumber.
How did I save him from the madhouse? I took him to the nearest university and forced him to discharge the charge of those unrelenting verses into the greedy ears of the poor, gullible students. What's the matter with them now? The result is too sad to describe. Why did I write this article? I did so with a noble purpose: it is to warn you, the reader, to avoid these poems if you happen to come across them, to avoid them like the plague!