I know that my face on the samovar is distorted. No
one can tell the real truth; man's throat is too delicate for this. And
then, the real truth is known to nobody."

"Papa!" exclaimed Lubov, sadly, "But in books and in newspapers they
defend the general interests of all the people."

"And in what paper is it written that you are weary of life, and that
it was time for you to get married? So, there your interest is not
defended! Eh! You! Neither is mine defended. Who knows what I need? Who,
but myself, understands my interests?"

"No, papa, that isn't right, that isn't right! I cannot refute you, but
I feel that this isn't right!" said Lubov almost with despair.

"It is right!" said the old man, firmly. "Russia is confused, and there
is nothing steadfast in it; everything is staggering! Everybody lives
awry, everybody walks on one side, there's no harmony in life. All are
yelling out of tune, in different voices. And not one understands what
the other is in need of! There is a mist over everything--everybody
inhales that mist, and that's why the blood of the people has become
spoiled--hence the sores. Man is given great liberty to reason, but is
not permitted to do anything--that's why man does not live; but rots and
stinks."

"What ought one to do, then?" asked Lubov, resting her elbows on the
table and bending toward her father.

"Everything!" cried the old man, passionately. "Do everything. Go ahead!
Let each man do whatever he knows best! But for that liberty must
be given to man--complete freedom! Since there has come a time, when
everyraw youth believes that he knows everything and was created for the
complete arrangement of life--give him, give the rogue freedom! Here,
Carrion, live! Come, come, live! Ah! Then such a comedy will follow;
feeling that his bridle is off, man will then rush up higher than his
ears, and like a feather will fly hither and thither. He'll believe
himself to be a miracle worker, and then he'll start to show his
spirit."

The old man paused awhile and, lowering his voice, went on, with a
malicious smile:

"But there is very little of that creative spirit in him! He'll bristle
up for a day or two, stretch himself on all sides--and the poor fellow
will soon grow weak. For his heart is rotten--he, he, he! Here, he, he,
he! The dear fellow will be caught by the real, worthy people, by those
real people who are competent to be the actual civil masters, who will
manage life not with a