“Yes, I know that all these false measures undertaken are stuff and a total mockery,” cut in Lichonin. “But let me be ridiculous and stupid, yet I do not wish to remain a commiserating spectator, who sits on a warm ledge, gazes upon a conflagration, and is saying all the time: ‘Oh, my, but it’s burning ... by God, it is burning! Perhaps there are even people burning!’—but for his part merely laments and slaps his thighs.” “Well, now,” said Platonov harshly, “would you take a child’s syringe and go to put out the fire with it?” “No!” heatedly exclaimed Lichonin ... “Perhaps—who knows?—perhaps I’ll succeed in saving at least one living soul? It was just this that I wanted to ask you about, Platonov, and you must help me ... Only, I implore you, without jeers, without cooling off ...” “You want to take a girl out of here? To save her?” asked Platonov, looking at him attentively. He now understood the drift of this entire conversation. “Yes ... I don’t know ... I’ll try ...” answered Lichonin uncertainly. “She’ll come back,” said Platonov. “She will,” Jennie repeated with conviction. Lichonin walked up to her, took her by the hands and began to speak in a trembling whisper: “Jennechka ... Perhaps you ... eh? For I don’t call you as a mistress ... but a friend ... It’s all a trifle, half a year of rest ... and then we’ll master some trade or other ... we’ll read...” Jennie snatched her hands out of his with vexation. “Oh, into a bog with you!” she almost shouted. “I know you! Want me to darn socks for you? Cook on a kerosene stove? Pass nights without sleeping on account of you when you’ll be chitter-chattering with your short-haired friends? But when you get to be a doctor or a lawyer, or a government clerk, then it’s me will get a knee in the back: ‘Out on the street with you, now, you public hide, you’ve ruined my young life. I want to marry a decent girl, pure, and innocent! ...” “I meant it as a brother ... I meant it without that ...” mumbled Lichonin in confusion. “I know that kind of brothers. Until the first night ... Leave off and don’t talk nonsense to me! It makes me tired to listen to it!” “Wait, Lichonin!” began the reporter seriously. “Why, you will pile a load beyond your strength upon yourself as well. I’ve known idealists, among the populists, who married peasant girls out of principle. This is just the way they thought—nature, black-loam, untapped forces. ... But this black-loam after a year turned into the fattest of women, who lies the whole day in bed and chews cookies, or studs her fingers with penny rings, spreads them out and admires them. Or else sits in the kitchen, drinks sweet liquor with the coachman and carries on a natural romance with him. Look out, here it will be worse!” All three became silent. Lichonin was pale and was wiping his moist forehead with a handkerchief.