"Capital punishment, my dear sir, is not barbarism!" he shouted. "Science admits that there are born criminals. There's nothing to be said for them, my friend. They ought to be destroyed and not supported by the State. A man's a scoundrel--and they give him a warm corner in a convict prison. He's a murderer, an incendiary, a seducer, but the tax-payer must support him out of his pocket. No-o! It's much juster and cheaper to hang them." The round table in the dining-room was covered with a white tablecloth with a red border, and upon it were distributed plates with fat sausages and other salted, smoked, and pickled eatables, and decanters and bottles of various sizes and forms, containing all sorts of vodkas, brandies and liqueurs. Everything was to Peredonov's taste, and even the slight carelessness of their arrangement pleased him. The host continued to shout. Apropos of the food, he began to abuse the shopkeepers, and then for some reason began to talk about ancestry. "Ancestry is a big thing," he shouted savagely, "for the muzhiks to enter the aristocracy is stupid, absurd, impractical and immoral. The soil is getting poorer and the cities are filled with unemployed. Then there are bad harvests, idleness and suicides--how does that please you? You may teach the muzhik as much as you like but don't give him any rank--it makes a peasantry lose its best members and it always remains rabble and cattle. And the gentry also suffer detriment from the influx of uncultured elements. In his own village he was better than others, but when he gets into a higher rank he brings into it something coarse, unknightly and plebeian. In the first case the most important things are gain and his stomach. No-o, my dear fellow, the castes were a wise institution." "Here, for instance, our Head-Master lets all sorts of riff-raff into the school," said Peredonov angrily. "There are even peasant children there and many commoners' children." "Fine doings, I must say!" shouted the host. "There's a circular saying that we shouldn't admit all kinds of riff-raff, but he does as he likes," complained Peredonov. "He refuses hardly anyone. Life is rather poorish in our town, he says, and there are too few pupils as it is. What does he mean by few? It would be better if there were less. It's all we can do to correct the exercise-books alone. There's no time to read the school-books. They purposely write dubious words in their compositions--you have to look in Grote to see how they're spelled." "Have some brandy," suggested Avinovitsky. "Well, what is your business with me?" "I have enemies," growled Peredonov, as he looked dejectedly into his glass of yellow vodka before drinking it. "There was once a pig who lived without enemies," said Avinovitsky, "and he also was slaughtered. Have a bit--it was a very good pig." Peredonov took a slice of ham and said: "They're spreading all sorts of scandal about me."