ithout beauty--do you know that, you who laugh--it
will sink into bondage, you won't invent a nail even!... I won't yield an
inch!" he shouted absurdly in confusion, and with all his might banged
his fist on the table.

But all the while that he was shrieking senselessly and incoherently,
the disorder in the hall increased. Many people jumped up from their
seats, some dashed forward, nearer to the platform. It all happened much
more quickly than I describe it, and there was no time to take steps,
perhaps no wish to, either.

"It's all right for you, with everything found for you, you pampered
creatures!" the same divinity student bellowed at the foot of the
platform, grinning with relish at Stepan Trofimovitch, who noticed it
and darted to the very edge of the platform.

"Haven't I, haven't I just declared that the enthusiasm of the young
generation is as pure and bright as it was, and that it is coming to
grief through being deceived only in the forms of beauty! Isn't that
enough for you? And if you consider that he who proclaims this is a
father crushed and insulted, can one--oh, shallow hearts--can one
rise to greater heights of impartiality and fairness?... Ungrateful...
unjust.... Why, why can't you be reconciled!"

And he burst into hysterical sobs. He wiped away his dropping tears with
his fingers. His shoulders and breast were heaving with sobs. He was
lost to everything in the world.

A perfect panic came over the audience, almost all got up from their
seats. Yulia Mihailovna, too, jumped up quickly, seizing her husband by
the arm and pulling him up too.... The scene was beyond all belief.

"Stepan Trofimovitch!" the divinity student roared gleefully. "There's
Fedka the convict wandering about the town and the neighbourhood,
escaped from prison. He is a robber and has recently committed another
murder. Allow me to ask you: if you had not sold him as a recruit
fifteen years ago to pay a gambling debt, that is, more simply, lost
him at cards, tell me, would he have got into prison? Would he have cut
men's throats now, in his struggle for existence? What do you say, Mr.
AEsthete?"

I decline to describe the scene that followed. To begin with there was a
furious volley of applause. The applause did not come from all--probably
from some fifth part of the audience--but they applauded furiously. The
rest of the public made for the exit, but as the applauding part of the
audience kept pressing forward towards t