without looking behind him. Nor from that day to this has he crossed Demian's threshold.
[There was a meeting one day, at the house of the poet Derjavine, of the members of the "Society of the Lovers of Russian Literature." Krilof had promised to attend, and to read one of his new and, as yet, unpublished fables; but he did not appear till very late. When he arrived, some one was reading an exceeedingly long poem, which went on and on until the audience was utterly worn out. At last, however, it came to an end. Then Krilof was asked to read his poem; so he put his hand in his pocket, produced a piece of paper, and read "Demian's Fish Soup." It is easy to imagine how thoroughly it was appreciated by an audience which had just been suffering tortures at the hands of a literary Demian—one of those authors who, when they have once secured a hearing, never know when it is time to leave off.]
