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I lay with my stomach on the windowsill in a trance-like state, watching the unfortunate tomcat Basil wandering about the oak, now to the left and then to the right, muttering, coughing, meowing and mooing, standing on all fours in his efforts — in a word, suffering endlessly. The range of his knowledge was truly grandiose. He did not know a single tale or song more than halfway, but to make up for this, his repertoire included Russian, Ukrainian, West Slavic, German, English — I think even Japanese, Chinese, and African — fairy tales, legends, sermons, ballads, songs, romances, ditties and refrains.
The misfunction drove him into such rage that several times he flung himself at the oak, ripping its bark with his claws, hissing and spitting while his eyes glowed with an infernal gleam and his furry tail, thick as a log, would now point at the zenith, then twitch spasmodically, then lash his sides. But the only song he carried to the end was "Chizhik Pizhik," and the only fairy tale he recounted coherently to the end was "The House that Jack Built" in Marshak translation, and even that with several excisions.
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