"Speak more plainly, without metaphors, because I do not understand thee." "Because,--laugh if it pleases thee,--because there is no faith in thee, no warmth of heart; mind, merely a farthing mind; thou art simply a pitiful, lagging Voltairian--that's what thou art!" "Who--I am a Voltairian?" "Yes, just the same sort as thy father was, and dost not suspect it thyself." "After that,"--cried Lavretzky,--"I have a right to say that thou art a fanatic!" "Alas!"--returned Mikhalevitch, with contrition:--"unhappily, as yet I have in no way earned so lofty an appellation...." "Now I have discovered what to call thee,"--shouted this same Mikhalevitch, at three o'clock in the morning;--"thou art not a sceptic, not a disillusioned man, not a Voltairian,--thou art a trifler, and thou art an evil-minded trifler, a conscious trifler, not an ingenuous trifler. Ingenuous triflers lie around on the oven and do nothing, because they do not know how to do anything; and they think of nothing. But thou art a thinking man,--and thou liest around; thou mightest do something--and thou dost nothing; thou liest with thy well-fed belly upward and sayest: 'It is proper to lie thus, because everything that men do is nonsense, and twaddle which leads to nothing.'" "But what makes thee think that I trifle,"--insisted Lavretzky:--"why dost thou assume such thoughts on my part?" "And more than that, all of you, all the people of your sort,"--pursued the obstreperous Mikhalevitch:--"are erudite triflers. You know on what foot the German limps, you know what is bad about the English and the French,--and your knowledge comes to your assistance, justifies your shameful laziness, your disgusting inactivity. Some men will even pride themselves, and say, 'What a clever fellow I am!--I lie around, but the others, the fools, bustle about.' Yes!--And there are such gentlemen among us,--I am not saying this with reference to thee, however,--who pass their whole lives in a sort of stupor of tedium, grow accustomed to it, sit in it like ... like a mushroom in sour cream," Mikhalevitch caught himself up, and burst out laughing at his own comparison.--"Oh, that stupor of tedium is the ruin of the Russians! The repulsive trifler, all his life long, is getting ready to work...." "Come, what art thou calling names for?"--roared Lavretzky, in his turn.--"Work ... act ... Tell me, rather, what to do, but don't call names, you Poltava Demosthenes!" "Just see what a freak he has taken! I'll not tell thee that, brother; every one must know that himself," retorted Demosthenes, ironically.--"A landed proprietor, a nobleman--and he doesn't know what to do! Thou hast no faith, or thou wouldst know; thou hast no faith--and there is no revelation." "Give me a rest, at any rate, you devil: give me a chance to look around me,"--entreated Lavretzky.