Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

“ There's no talking to you."
"My dear friend," whimpers Champune, pacified by Kamyshev’s tone, "I swear to you, I am attached to Russia, to you, and to your children. To leave you would be as hard for me as to die. But every word of yours cuts into my heart."
"Oh, you queer fellow! If I abuse the French, why on earth should you feel insulted? There are heaps of people we abuse, and supposing all of them were to feel insulted? You are a queer fellow, really! ”

“ In general, I don't care for the French. I'm not speaking about you, but in general. An immoral nation. From the outside, they are just like men, but they live like dogs. Take, for example now, marriage. If a man here gets married, he sticks to his wife and there's an end of the matter. But the Lord only knows what you do. The man sits all day in the café, and his wife crams the house full of Frenchmen and then for the cancan.
"That's untrue!" Champune cannot keep himself from saying. "In France domestic life is very highly esteemed." ”

“ Your French mustard couldn't do that, not even if you swallowed a whole pot of it."
"Some like French mustard, and some Russian," remarks Champune mildly.
"Nobody likes French mustard, except the French. But give what you like to a Frenchman,—he'll eat it all up; frogs and rats and cockroaches. Ugh! For instance, you don't like this ham because it's Russian; but give you roasted glass and say it's French, and you'll begin to eat and smack your lips. Your idea is, that all Russian things are rotten." ”