He had not understood many things in the houses. The souls of the perishing women were to him a mystery as before; but it was dear to him that the business was much worse than one would have thought. If the guilty woman who poisoned herself was called a prostitute, then it was hard to find a suitable name for all these creatures, who danced to the muddling music and said long, disgusting phrases. They were not perishing; they were already done for. “Vice is here,” he thought; “but there is neither confession of sin nor hope of salvation. They are bought and sold, drowned in wine and torpor, and they are dull and indifferent as sheep and do not understand. My God, my God!” It was so clear to him that all that which is called human dignity, individuality, the image and likeness of God, was here dragged down to the gutter, as they say of drunkards, and that not only the street and the stupid women were to blame for it. A crowd of students white with snow, talking and laughing gaily, passed by. One of them, a tall, thin man, peered into Vassiliev’s face and said drunkenly, “He’s one of ours. Logged, old man? Aha! my lad. Never mind. Walk up, never say die, uncle.” He took Vassiliev by the shoulders and pressed his cold wet moustaches to his cheek, then slipped, staggered, brandished his arms, and cried out: “Steady there--don’t fall.” Laughing, he ran to join his comrades. Through the noise the painter’s voice became audible. “You dare beat women! I won’t have it. Go to Hell. You’re regular swine.” The medico appeared at the door of the house. He glanced round and on seeing Vassiliev, said in alarm: “Is that you? My God, it’s simply impossible to go anywhere with Yegor. I can’t understand a chap like that. He kicked up a row--can’t you hear? Yegor,” he called from the door. “Yegor!” “I won’t have you hitting women.” The painter’s shrill voice was audible again from upstairs. Something heavy and bulky tumbled down the staircase. It was the painter coming head over heels. He had evidently been thrown out. He lifted himself up from the ground, dusted his hat, and with an angry indignant face, shook his fist at the upstairs. “Scoundrels! Butchers! Bloodsuckers! I won’t have you hitting a weak, drunken woman. Ah, you....” “Yegor ... Yegor!” the medico began to implore, “I give my word I’ll never go out with you again. Upon my honour, I won’t.” The painter gradually calmed, and the friends went home. “To these sad shores unknowing”--the medico began--“An unknown power entices....” “‘Behold the mill,’” the painter sang with him after a pause, “‘Now fallen into ruin.’ How the snow is falling, most Holy Mother. Why did you go away, Grisha? You’re a coward; you’re only an old woman.”