with boiling pitch that he was pronounced useless to the trade, and sent about his business.
On recovering from the effects of this accident he was apprenticed by his kinsfolk to a draughtsman, who treated him so harshly that he ran away, becoming first an assistant to an ikon-maker, and then a turnspit on a steamer on the Volga. Here he met with an unexpected piece of good luck. His new master, the cook on board the steamer, Smurny by name, happened to be a lettered man of superior ability, and he proved to be one of the best friends young Pyeshkov ever had. But for him, indeed, modern Russian Literature in all probability would now have been minus of one of its chief ornaments. Smurny awakened within the lad a love of literature, and placed at his disposal his own little library, a miscellaneous collection enough, in which fantastic lives of the Greek Orthodox Saints and interminable treatises on Freemasonry lay cheek by jowl; it was, however, an inestimable boon to Aleksyei, and it included, at any rate, the works of one indisputable European classic—Gogol—besides some of the novels of Alexandre Dumas. Pyeshkov himself, in his fragmentary autobiography, insinuates that his chance encounter with the cultured cook was a turning-point in his career. "Till the advent of the cook," says he, "I could not endure books, or, indeed, any sort of printed paper—passports included." Why he quitted
