“That, my angel, is a question that fate will settle for you, so do not worry,” said the Captain, thoughtfully, entering the doss-house. The “creatures that once were men” lazily followed him.

“We can do nothing but await the critical moment,” said the Captain, pacing along among them. “When they turn us out we shall seek a new shelter for ourselves, but at present there is no use spoiling our life by thinking of it. …In times of crisis one becomes energetic…and if life were nothing but a crisis and every moment of it so arranged that we were compelled to tremble for our lives all the time…by God! it would be livelier and men more interesting than they are!”

“That means that they would cut each other’s throats more viciously,” explained Bag of Bones, smilingly.

“Well, what about it?” asked the Captain, hotly. He did not like to hear his thoughts explained.

“Oh! Nothing! You are right, when one wants to get anywhere quickly one whips up the horses, and pokes up the fire in the engines.…”

“Well, let everything go to the Devil as quickly as possible. I’m sure I should be pleased if the earth suddenly blew up or was consumed or blown to pieces, if I were to be the last left and could watch the others perish.…”

“Ferocious creature!” smiled Bag of Bones.

“Well, what of that? I…I was once a man…now I am an outcast…that means I have no ties or obligations. It means that I am free to spit on everything. The nature of my present life means the rejection of my past …giving up all means of intercourse with men who are well fed and well dressed, and who look upon me with contempt because I am inferior to them in the matter of feeding or dressing. I must develop something new within myself, do you understand? Something that will make the managers of life, such as Judas Petunikoff, and his kind, tremble in their guts before my imposing figure.”

“Ah! you have a bold tongue!” jeered Bag of Bones.

“You worm!” And Kuvalda looked at him contemptuously. “What do you understand? What do you know? Are you able to think? I have thought and read…books of which you would not understand one word.”

“Of course! I haven’t learned how to eat soup with my shoe.…But though you have read and thought, and I have done neither, we both seem to have got into pretty much the same condition, haven’t we?”

“Go to the devil!” shouted Kuvalda. His conversations with Bag of Bones always ended like that. When the teacher was absent his speeches, that he knew, merely fell into thin air and infected it, receiving no approval or attention, but still he could not help speaking. Now, having quarreled with his companion, he felt rather deserted among these men, but still longing for conversation, he turned to Simtsoff with the following question: “And you, Aleksei Maksimovitch, where will you lay your gray head?”

The old man smiled good-humoredly, rubbed his nose, and replied, “I do not know…I will see. I do not require much, just a little drink now and then.”

“Plain, but honorable fate!” the Captain said encouragingly. Simtsoff, after a silence, added that he would find a means of living sooner than any of them, because women loved him so. This was true. The old man had, as a rule, two or three prostitutes at his disposal, who kept him days on end on their very scant earnings. They very often beat him, but he took this stoically. For some reason they never beat him too hard, probably because they pitied him. He was a great lover of women, and said they were the cause of all his misfortunes. The intimacy of his relations with them and of their attitude to him was revealed by the appearance of his clothes, which were more neatly mended and cleaner than those of his companions, also by his frequent illnesses. And now, sitting at the door of the doss-house, he boasted to his friends that for a long time Radish had been asking him to go and live with her, but he