ome out of him. Even then he stood in the way of
other people. A bold boy he was. I should have looked after him then.
Perhaps, I might have made a man of him."

Lubov looked at her father, smiled inimically, and asked hotly:

"And isn't he who writes for newspapers a man?"

For a long while, the old man did not answer his daughter. Thoughtfully,
he drummed with his fingers against the table and examined his face,
which was reflected in the brightly polished brass of the samovar. Then
he raised his head, winked his eyes and said impressively and irritably:

"They are not men, they are sores! The blood of the Russian people has
become mixed, it has become mixed and spoiled, and from the bad
blood have come all these book and newspaper-writers, these terrible
Pharisees. They have broken out everywhere, and they are still breaking
out, more and more. Whence comes this spoiling of the blood? From
slowness of motion. Whence the mosquitoes, for instance? From the swamp.
All sorts of uncleanliness multiply in stagnant waters. The same is true
of a disordered life."

"That isn't right, papa!" said Lubov, softly.

"What do you mean by--not right?"

"Writers are the most unselfish people, they are noble personalities!
They don't want anything--all they strive for is justice--truth! They're
not mosquitoes."

Lubov grew excited as she lauded her beloved people; her face was
flushed, and her eyes looked at her father with so much feeling, as
though imploring him to believe her, being unable to convince him.

"Eh, you!" said the old man, with a sigh, interrupting her. "You've read
too much! You've been poisoned! Tell me--who are they? No one knows!
That Yozhov--what is he? Only God knows. All they want is the truth, you
say? What modest people they are! And suppose truth is the very dearest
thing there is? Perhaps everybody is seeking it in silence? Believe
me--man cannot be unselfish. Man will not fight for what belongs not to
him, and if he does fight--his name is 'fool,' and he is of no use to
anybody. A man must be able to stand up for himself, for his own, then
will he attain something! Here you have it! Truth! Here I have been
reading the same newspaper for almost forty years, and I can see
well--here is my face before you, and before me, there on the samovar is
again my face, but it is another face. You see, these newspapers give
a samovar face to everything, and do not see the real one. And yet you
believe them. But