“All these are foolish illusions…fiddlesticks!”

It was strange to hear them reasoning in this manner, these outcasts from life, tattered, sodden with vodka and wrath, irony and filth. Such conversations were a feast for the Captain’s heart. They gave him an opportunity of speaking more than the rest and therefore he thought himself better than the rest. And, however low he may fall, a man can never deny himself the delight of feeling cleverer, more powerful, or even better-nourished than his companions. Aristid Kuvalda abused this pleasure, and never could have enough of it, much to the disgust of Bag of Bones, Kubar, and others of these creatures that once were men, who were less interested in such matters.

Politics, however, were more to the general taste. The discussions as to the necessity of conquering India or of subduing England could last any amount of time. Nor did they speak with less enthusiasm of the radical measures for clearing Jews off the face of the earth. On this subject Bag of Bones always scored in proposing merciless plans, so that the Captain, desirous to be first in every argument, avoided this one. They also spoke readily, abundantly and impudently about women, but the teacher always defended the sex, and was very angry when they went beyond the limits of decency. They all, as a rule, gave in to him, because they looked upon him as an exceptional person, and also because they wished to borrow from him on Saturdays the money which he had earned during the week. He had many privileges. They never beat him, for instance, on these frequent occasions when the conversation ended in a free fight. He had the right to bring women into the doss-house; a privilege accorded to no one else, as the Captain had previously warned them.

“No bringing women to my house,” he had said. “Women, merchants and philosophers, these are the three causes of my ruin. I will horsewhip anyone bringing in women. I’ll horsewhip the woman too.…And if I find anyone philosophizing, I’ll knock his head off for him.” And notwithstanding his age he could have knocked anyone’s head off, for he possessed wonderful strength. Besides, whenever he fought or quarreled, he was assisted by Martyanoff, who during a general fight would stand silently and solemnly as a tombstone back to back with Kuvalda, and then they became an all-destroying and impregnable engine of war. Once when Simtsoff was drunk, he rushed at the teacher for no reason whatever, and tore out a handful of hair. Kuvalda, with one stroke of his fist in the other’s chest, made him unconscious for almost half an hour, and when he came to himself, Kuvalda forced him to eat the teacher’s hair. He ate it, preferring this to being beaten to death.

Besides reading newspapers, fighting and indulging in general conversation, they entertained themselves by playing cards. They played without Martyanoff because he could not play honestly. After having been caught cheating several times, he openly confessed:

“I cannot play without cheating…it is a habit of mine.”

“Habits do get the better of you,” assented Deacon Taras. “I used to beat my wife every Sunday after Mass, and when she died I cannot describe how empty the day seemed on Sunday. I lived through one, it was bad enough…the second I still controlled myself, the third Sunday I struck my cook…She protested and threatened to have me summoned. Just imagine if she had! On the fourth Sunday, I beat her just as if she were my own wife! Then I gave her ten rubles, and beat her after that regularly, till I married again.”

“You are lying, Deacon! How could you marry a second time?” interrupted Bag of Bones.

“Aye, just so…She looked after my house…”

“Did you have any children?” asked the teacher.

“Five of them…One was drowned…the eldest…he was an amusing boy! Two died of diphtheria…One of the daughters married a student and went with him to Siberia. The other decided to study and died in St. Petersburg of consumption, they say. Ye-es, there were five of them…Ecclesiastics are prolific, you know.”