“Oh, no, he wouldn’t go with Foma on a spree!’ said Lubov, confidently, and blushed deeply at her father’s searching look. “So! You have fine acquaintances, Lubka!” said Mayakin with humorous bitterness. “Well, who wrote it?” “What do you wish to know it for, papa?” “Come, tell me!” She had no desire to tell, but the old man persisted, and his voice was growing more and more dry and angry. Then she asked him uneasily: “And you will not do him any ill for it?” “I? I will--bite his head off! Fool! What can I do to him? They, these writers, are not a foolish lot and are therefore a power--a power, the devils! And I am not the governor, and even he cannot put one’s hand out of joint or tie one’s tongue. Like mice, they gnaw us little by little. And we have to poison them not with matches, but with roubles. Yes! Well, who is it?” “Do you remember, when I was going to school, a Gymnasium student used to come up to us. Yozhov? Such a dark little fellow!” “Mm! Of course, I saw him. I know him. So it’s he?” “Yes.” “The little mouse! Even at that time one could see already that something wrong would come out of him. Even then he stood in the way of other people. A bold boy he was. I should have looked after him then. Perhaps, I might have made a man of him.” Lubov looked at her father, smiled inimically, and asked hotly: “And isn’t he who writes for newspapers a man?” For a long while, the old man did not answer his daughter. Thoughtfully, he drummed with his fingers against the table and examined his face, which was reflected in the brightly polished brass of the samovar. Then he raised his head, winked his eyes and said impressively and irritably: “They are not men, they are sores! The blood of the Russian people has become mixed, it has become mixed and spoiled, and from the bad blood have come all these book and newspaper-writers, these terrible Pharisees. They have broken out everywhere, and they are still breaking out, more and more. Whence comes this spoiling of the blood? From slowness of motion. Whence the mosquitoes, for instance? From the swamp. All sorts of uncleanliness multiply in stagnant waters. The same is true of a disordered life.” “That isn’t right, papa!” said Lubov, softly. “What do you mean by--not right?” “Writers are the most unselfish people, they are noble personalities! They don’t want anything--all they strive for is justice--truth! They’re not mosquitoes.” Lubov grew excited as she lauded her beloved people; her face was flushed, and her eyes looked at her father with so much feeling, as though imploring him to believe her, being unable to convince him.