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RUDIN ‘What next? a fine poet you would make!’ retorted Darya Mihailovna. ‘Do you know Little Russian?’

‘Not a bit; but it isn’t necessary.’

‘Not necessary?’

‘Oh no, it’s not necessary. You need only take a sheet of paper and write at the top “A Ballad,” then begin like this, “Heigho, alack, my destiny!” or “the Cossack Nalivaiko was sitting on a hill and then on the mountain, under the green tree the birds are singing, graë, voropaë, gop, gop!” or something of that kind. And the thing’s done. Print it and publish it. The Little Russian will read it, drop his head into his hands and infallibly burst into tears—he is such a sensitive soul!’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Bassistoff. ‘What are you saying? It’s too absurd for anything. I have lived in Little Russia, I love it and know the language “graë, graë, voropaë” is absolute nonsense.’

‘It may be, but the Little Russian will weep all the same. You speak of the “language.” But is there a Little Russian language? Is it a language, in your opinion? an independent 35