‘Mmm ... and the commune?’ articulated Gubaryov, deep in thought, and biting a tuft of his beard he stared at the table-leg. ‘The commune!... Do you understand. That is a grand word! Then what is the significance of these conflagrations? these ... these government measures against Sunday-schools, reading-rooms, journals? And the refusal of the peasants to sign the charters regulating their position in the future? And finally, what of what is happening in Poland? Don’t you see that ... mmm ... that we ... we have to unite with the people ... find out ... find out their views----’ Suddenly a heavy, almost a wrathful emotion seemed to take possession of Gubaryov; he even grew black in the face and breathed heavily, but still did not raise his eyes, and continued to gnaw at his beard. ‘Can’t you see----’ ‘Yevseyev is a wretch!’ Madame Suhantchikov burst out noisily all of a sudden. Bambaev had been relating something to her in a voice lowered out of respect for their host. Gubaryov turned round swiftly on his heels, and again began limping about the room. Fresh guests began to arrive; towards the end of the evening a good many people were assembled. Among them came, too, Mr. Yevseyev whom Madame Suhantchikov had vilified so cruelly. She entered into conversation with him very cordially, and asked him to escort her home; there arrived too a certain Pishtchalkin, an ideal mediator, one of those men of precisely whom perhaps Russia stands in need--a man, that is, narrow, of little information, and no great gifts, but conscientious, patient, and honest; the peasants of his district almost worshipped him, and he regarded himself very respectfully as a creature genuinely deserving of esteem. A few officers, too, were there, escaped for a brief furlough to Europe, and rejoicing--though of course warily, and ever mindful of their colonel in the background of their brains--in the opportunity of dallying a little with intellectual--even rather dangerous--people; two lanky students from Heidelberg came hurrying in, one looked about him very contemptuously, the other giggled spasmodically ... both were very ill at ease; after them a Frenchman--a so-called _petit jeune homme_--poked his nose in; a nasty, silly, pitiful little creature, ... who enjoyed some repute among his fellow _commis-voyageurs_ on the theory that Russian countesses had fallen in love with him; for his own part, his reflections were centred more upon getting a supper gratis; the last to appear was Tit Bindasov, in appearance a rollicking German student, in reality a skinflint, in words a terrorist, by vocation a police-officer, a friend of Russian merchants’ wives and Parisian _cocottes_; bald, toothless, and drunken; he arrived very red and sodden, affirming that he had lost his last farthing to that blackguard Benazet; in reality, he had won sixteen guldens.... In short, there were a number of people. Remarkable--really remarkable--was the respect with