“Why, we were just talking about the misfortune that happened to-day ... about the publican.”... “Well, what about him?” He struck a match on his coat-sleeve, hardly listening to what was said. “We were just talking, sir; that’s all.... You see, the poor fellow’s lost his immortal soul.” “What soul?” The cigarette lighted suddenly, and scattered little sparks all round. “What soul? What nonsense are you talking?” “Why! your honour! his soul!” “The man was simply a drunkard! It’s all nonsense!” “But what about the next world?” “What’s the use of talking rubbish? Don’t get drunk, and you won’t be run over.... The deuce knows what they’ll say next—a soul!” His young wife and his boiling new samovar occupied his thoughts so completely that they made his whole conversation merry, and gave it a tone of “all fiddle-sticks!” Having uttered his few remarks in a cheerful manner, he walked away, also in a cheerful manner, along the platform, and flung back at the group of silhouettes one last word— “Twaddle!” He then disappeared in the darkness, humming “Strièlochka.” “No, it isn’t twaddle!” rather decidedly remarked one of the silhouettes; and his dark figure moved forwards, hiding all the other silhouettes. “It’s anything but twaddle—a soul is!” The appearance of the cheerful stationmaster had somehow driven away the gloomy thoughts of the group, and, not finding at the moment any pleasant theme for conversation, they did not support the unknown orator by any positive announcement at all. But their silence in no way put him out of countenance, and he continued, in an impressive tone of voice— “Twaddle! It’s easy for him to talk!... The man simply doesn’t believe in God—he’s a Nihilist, that’s what he is!... If he believed in God he wouldn’t dare to talk like that.... I used to be no better than a dead log myself until I got conviction.... What can any of us understand? We know how to say our prayers; we know how to put candles before the altar; but what do we know about the wisdom of the Lord?... And yet, if the Lord God should call me now to the lot, first of a fish and then of a hen, and should give me a talent and allow me to enter into it, I tell you, mates, I understand all about it now!... Yes! There is a soul, mates! there is indeed!... That’s what I say—it’s true; it’s not twaddle!” The audience had at first some difficulty in understanding what this poultry-farmer was talking about. The most incompatible images and ideas had got so mixed up together in his speech—God, the soul, a fish’s lot, a hen’s lot—all this was too hard for the silhouettes to digest at once. Somebody tried how it would do to make one of the stock remarks of the Russian citizen in difficulties: “Of course it is!”—one of those phrases which will serve for an answer at a pinch, but have no meaning in particular (though they are constantly used in commerce); but he said it in a timid whisper, and relapsed into silence.