accommodating, easy and not proud; one can drink with him and gossip
and talk evil of people. . . . The masses, always inclined to
anthropomorphism in religion and morals, like best of all the little
gods who have the same weaknesses as themselves. Only think what a
wide field he has for contamination! Besides, he is not a bad actor
and is a clever hypocrite, and knows very well how to twist things
round. Only take his little shifts and dodges, his attitude to
civilisation, for instance. He has scarcely sniffed at civilisation,
yet: 'Ah, how we have been crippled by civilisation! Ah, how I envy
those savages, those children of nature, who know nothing of
civilisation!' We are to understand, you see, that at one time, in
ancient days, he has been devoted to civilisation with his whole
soul, has served it, has sounded it to its depths, but it has
exhausted him, disillusioned him, deceived him; he is a Faust, do
you see?--a second Tolstoy. . . . As for Schopenhauer and Spencer,
he treats them like small boys and slaps them on the shoulder in a
fatherly way: 'Well, what do you say, old Spencer?' He has not read
Spencer, of course, but how charming he is when with light, careless
irony he says of his lady friend: 'She has read Spencer!' And they
all listen to him, and no one cares to understand that this charlatan
has not the right to kiss the sole of Spencer's foot, let alone
speaking about him in that tone! Sapping the foundations of
civilisation, of authority, of other people's altars, spattering
them with filth, winking jocosely at them only to justify and conceal
one's own rottenness and moral poverty is only possible for a very
vain, base, and nasty creature."

"I don't know what it is you expect of him, Kolya," said Samoylenko,
looking at the zoologist, not with anger now, but with a guilty
air. "He is a man the same as every one else. Of course, he has his