It was rather damp; the vessel swayed a little, and the ladies had
retired to their cabins.

The gentleman with the little round beard sat down beside me and
continued:

"Yes, when Russians come together they discuss nothing but abstract
subjects and women. We are so intellectual, so solemn, that we utter
nothing but truths and can discuss only questions of a lofty order.
The Russian actor does not know how to be funny; he acts with
profundity even in a farce. We're just the same: when we have got
to talk of trifles we treat them only from an exalted point of view.
It comes from a lack of boldness, sincerity, and simplicity. We
talk so often about women, I fancy, because we are dissatisfied.
We take too ideal a view of women, and make demands out of all
proportion with what reality can give us; we get something utterly
different from what we want, and the result is dissatisfaction,
shattered hopes, and inward suffering, and if any one is suffering,
he's bound to talk of it. It does not bore you to go on with this
conversation?

"No, not in the least."

"In that case, allow me to introduce myself," said my companion,
rising from his seat a little:

"Ivan Ilyitch Shamohin, a Moscow landowner of a sort. . . . You I
know very well."