good fellow, industrious, strong and not a bit foolish. But to
argue is not his business; I may argue, because I am the master.
It isn't simple to be master. A punch wouldn't kill him, but will
make him wiser. That's the way. Eh, Foma! You are an infant, and
you do not understand these things. I must teach you how to live.
It may be that my days on earth are numbered."

Ignat was silent for awhile, drank some more vodka and went on
instinctively:

"It is necessary to have pity on men. You are right in doing so.
But you must pity them sensibly. First look at a man, find out
what good there is in him, and what use may be made of him! And
if you find him to be strong and capable--pity and assist him.
And if he is weak and not inclined to work--spit upon him, pass
him by. Just keep this in mind--the man who complains against
everything, who sighs and moans all the time--that man is worth
nothing; he merits no compassion and you will do him no good
whatever, even if you help him. Pity for such people makes them
more morose, spoils them the more. In your godfather's house you
saw various kinds of people--unfortunate travellers and hangers-
on, and all sorts of rabble. Forget them. They are not men, they
are just shells, and are good for nothing. They are like bugs,
fleas and other unclean things. Nor do they live for God's sake--
they have no God. They call His name in vain, in order to move
fools to pity, and, thus pitied, to fill their bellies with
something. They live but for their bellies, and aside from
eating, drinking, sleeping and moaning they can do nothing. And
all they accomplish is the soul's decay. They are in your way and
you trip over them. A good man among them--like fresh apples