"Science, thank God, has outlived its day," says Mihail Fyodorovitch
emphatically. "Its song is sung. Yes, indeed. Mankind begins to feel
impelled to replace it by something different. It has grown on the soil
of superstition, been nourished by superstition, and is now just as much
the quintessence of superstition as its defunct granddames, alchemy,
metaphysics, and philosophy. And, after all, what has it given to
mankind? Why, the difference between the learned Europeans and the
Chinese who have no science is trifling, purely external. The Chinese
know nothing of science, but what have they lost thereby?"

"Flies know nothing of science, either," I observe, "but what of that?"

"There is no need to be angry, Nikolay Stepanovitch. I only say this
here between ourselves... I am more careful than you think, and I am not
going to say this in public--God forbid! The superstition exists in
the multitude that the arts and sciences are superior to agriculture,
commerce, superior to handicrafts. Our sect is maintained by that
superstition, and it is not for you and me to destroy it. God forbid!"

After patience the younger generation comes in for a dressing too.

"Our audiences have degenerated," sighs Mihail Fyodorovitch. "Not to
speak of ideals and all the rest of it, if only they were capable of
work and rational thought! In fact, it's a case of 'I look with mournful
eyes on the young men of today.'"

"Yes; they have degenerated horribly," Katya agrees. "Tell me, have you
had one man of distinction among them for the last five or ten years?"

"I don't know how it is with the other professors, but I can't remember
any among mine."

"I have seen in my day many of your students and young scientific men
and many actors--well, I have never once been so fortunate as to meet--I
won't say a hero or a man of talent, but even an interesting man. It's
all the same grey mediocrity, puffed up with self-conceit."

All this talk of degeneration always affects me as though I had
accidentally overheard offensive talk about my own daughter. It
offends me that these charges are wholesale, and rest on such worn-out
commonplaces, on such wordy vapourings as degeneration and absence
of ideals, or on references to the splendours of the past. Every
accusation, even if it is uttered in ladies' society, ought to be
formulated with all possible definiteness, or it is not an accusation,
but idle disparagement, unworthy of decent people.

I a