"Human creatures are swine--as you know," said Sitanov, and then he tried to console me. "Never mind, Maxim, there are good people; there are!" He was easy to get on with; he was so simple. When he did not know anything, he said frankly: "I don't know; I never thought about it!" This was something unusual. Until I met him, I had only come across people who knew everything and talked about everything. It was strange to me to see in his note-book, side by side with good poetry which touched the soul, many obscene verses which aroused no feeling but that of shame. When I spoke to him about Pushkin, he showed me "Gavrialad," which had been copied in his book. "What is Pushkin? Nothing but a jester, but that Benediktov--he is worth paying attention to." And closing his eyes he repeated softly: "Look at the bewitching bosom Of a beautiful woman." For some reason he was especially partial to the three lines which he quoted with joyful pride: "Not even the orbs of an eagle Into that warm cloister can penetrate And read that heart." "Do you understand that?" It was very uncomfortable to me to have to acknowledge that I did not understand what he was so pleased about. CHAPTER XIV My duties in the workshop were not complicated. In the morning when they were all asleep, I had to prepare the samovar for the men, and while they drank tea in the kitchen, Pavl and I swept and dusted the workshop, set out red, yellow, or white paints, and then I went to the shop. In the evening I had to grind up colors and "watch" the work. At first I watched with great interest, but I soon realized that all the men who were engaged on this handicraft which was divided up into so many processes, disliked it, and suffered from a torturing boredom. The evenings were free. I used to tell them stories about life on the steamer and different stories out of books, and without noticing how it came about, I soon held a peculiar position in the workshop as story-teller and reader. I soon found out that all these people knew less than I did; almost all of them had been stuck in the narrow cage of workshop life since their childhood, and were still in it. Of all the occupants of the workshop, only Jikharev had been in Moscow, of which he spoke suggestively and frowningly: "Moscow does not believe in tears; there they know which side their bread is buttered." None of the rest had been farther than Shuya, or Vladimir. When mention was made of Kazan, they asked me: "Are there many Russians there? Are there any churches?" For them, Perm was in Siberia, and they would not believe that Siberia was beyond the Urals. "Sandres come from the Urals; and sturgeon--where are they found? Where do they get them? From the Caspian Sea? That means that the Urals are on the sea!"