else--wore a venerable grey beard, tied on (and this
constituted his disguise). As he danced he pounded up and down, taking
tiny and rapid steps on the same spot with a stolid expression of
countenance. He gave vent to sounds in a subdued but husky bass, and
this huskiness was meant to suggest one of the well-known papers.
Opposite this figure danced two giants, X and Z, and these letters were
pinned on their coats, but what the letters meant remained unexplained.
"Honest Russian thought" was represented by a middle-aged gentleman in
spectacles, dress-coat and gloves, and wearing fetters (real fetters).
Under his arm he had a portfolio containing papers relating to some
"case." To convince the sceptical, a letter from abroad testifying to
the honesty of "honest Russian thought" peeped out of his pocket. All
this was explained by the stewards, as the letter which peeped out of
his pocket could not be read. "Honest Russian thought" had his right
hand raised and in it held a glass as though he wanted to propose a
toast. In a line with him on each side tripped a crop-headed Nihilist
girl; while _vis-a-vis_ danced another elderly gentleman in a dress-coat
with a heavy cudgel in his hand. He was meant to represent a formidable
periodical (not a Petersburg one), and seemed to be saying, "I'll
pound you to a jelly." But in spite of his cudgel he could not bear the
spectacles of "honest Russian thought" fixed upon him and tried to look
away, and when he did the _pas de deux,_ he twisted, turned, and did not
know what to do with himself--so terrible, probably, were the stings
of his conscience! I don't remember all the absurd tricks they played,
however; it was all in the same style, so that I felt at last painfully
ashamed. And this same expression, as it were, of shame was reflected in
the whole public, even on the most sullen figures that had come out of
the refreshment-room. For some time all were silent and gazed with angry
perplexity. When a man is ashamed he generally begins to get angry and
is disposed to be cynical. By degrees a murmur arose in the audience.

"What's the meaning of it?" a man who had come in from the
refreshment-room muttered in one of the groups.

"It's silly."

"It's something literary. It's a criticism of the _Voice_."

"What's that to me?"

From another group:

"Asses!"

"No, they are not asses; it's we who are the asses."

"Why are you an ass?"

"I am not an ass."

"Well, if you are no