The Reporter, a Prose Poem by Ivan Turgenev

 

Two friends were at a table drinking tea.

A sudden hubbbub arose in the street. They heard pitiable groans, furious abuse, bursts of malignant laughter.

'They're beating someone,' observed one of the friends, looking out of the window.

'A criminal? A murderer?' inquired the other. 'I say, whatever he may be, we can't allow this illegal chastisement. Let's go and take his part.'

'But it's not a murderer they are beating.'

'It's not a murderer? Is it a thief then? It makes no difference, let's go and get him away from the crowd.'

'It's not a thief either.'

'Not a thief? Is it an absconding cashier then, a railway director, an army contractor, a Russian art patron, a lawyer, a Conservative editor, a social reformer? ... Any way, let's go and help him!'

'No ... it's a newspaper reporter they are beating.'

'A reporter? Oh, I tell you what: we'll finish our glasses of tea first then.'

July, 1878

[The Moral: Some people's sympathies only go so far.]