“ ‘The taxation of immovable property,’ ” reads the teacher, “ ‘was introduced some fifteen years ago, and up to the present it continues to serve as the basis for collecting these taxes in aid of the city revenue.…’ ”

“That is all very naïve,” comments Captain Kuvalda. “Continues to serve, indeed.…That is ridiculous. It is profitable to the merchant who is in the city that it should continue to serve, therefore, it does.”

“The article, in fact, is written on this subject,” says the teacher.

“Is it? That is strange, it is more a subject for a story…it must be treated with plenty of pepper.”

Then a short discussion begins. The people listen attentively, as only one bottle of vodka has been drunk until now.

After the editorial, they read the local events, then the court proceedings, and, if it is reported in the police court that the defendant or plaintiff is a merchant, then Aristid Kuvalda sincerely rejoices. If someone has robbed a merchant, “That is good,” says he. “It is only a pity that they robbed him of so little.” If his horses bolt—pleasant to hear, but “it is sad that he is still alive.” If the merchant lost his suit in court, “It is a pity that the costs were not double the amount.”

“That would have been illegal,” remarks the teacher.

“Illegal! But is the merchant himself legal?” inquires Kuvalda, bitterly. “What is the merchant? Let us investigate this coarse and absurd phenomenon. First of all, every merchant is a mujik. He comes from a village, and in course of time becomes a merchant. In order to be a merchant, one must have money. Where can the mujik get the money from? It is well known that he does not get it by honest hard work, and that means that the mujik, somehow or other, has been dishonest. That is to say, a merchant is simply a dishonest mujik.”

“Splendid!” cries the audience, approving the orator’s deduction, and Tyapa bellows all the time, scratching his breast. He bellows like this every time on drinking his first glass of vodka after having been drunk. The Captain beams with joy. They next read the correspondence. This is, for the Captain, the opening of the floodgates, as he says. He sees everywhere how abominably the merchants build up this life, and how cleverly they spoil everything that has been done before. His speeches thunder at the merchants and annihilate them. His audience listens to him with great pleasure, because he swears atrociously. “If I wrote for the papers,” he shouts, “I would show up the merchant in his true colors.…I would show that he is a beast, temporarily performing the functions of man. He is a rough boor, has no real taste for life, does not know the meaning of patriotism, and five kopecks is all he cares about.”

Bag of Bones, knowing the Captain’s weak point, and fond of making other people angry, maliciously adds:

“Yes, since the nobility began to die of hunger, men have disappeared from the world.…”

“You are right, you son of a spider and a toad. Yes, from the time that the noblemen collapsed, there have been no men. Only merchants have remained and I hate them.”

“That is easy to understand, brother, because you, too, have been brought down by them.…”

“I? It was love of life that ruined me, you fool. I loved life, but the merchant robs it of everything, and I cannot bear him, simply for this reason, and not because I am a nobleman. But if you want to know the truth, it’s not a nobleman that I am, but a ci-devant. I care now for nothing and nobody…and treat life as a mistress that has jilted me, for which I despise her.”

“You lie!” says Bag of Bones.