“What a pity,” he would say quietly and slowly, not looking his friend in the face (he never looked anyone in the face)—­“what a great pity it is that there are no people in our town who are capable of carrying on intelligent and interesting conversation, or care to do so.  It is an immense privation for us.  Even the educated class do not rise above vulgarity; the level of their development, I assure you, is not a bit higher than that of the lower orders.”

“Perfectly true.  I agree.”

“You know, of course,” the doctor went on quietly and deliberately, “that everything in this world is insignificant and uninteresting except the higher spiritual manifestations of the human mind.  Intellect draws a sharp line between the animals and man, suggests the divinity of the latter, and to some extent even takes the place of the immortality which does not exist.  Consequently the intellect is the only possible source of enjoyment.  We see and hear of no trace of intellect about us, so we are deprived of enjoyment.  We have books, it is true, but that is not at all the same as living talk and converse.  If you will allow me to make a not quite apt comparison:  books are the printed score, while talk is the singing.”

“Perfectly true.”

A silence would follow.  Daryushka would come out of the kitchen and with an expression of blank dejection would stand in the doorway to listen, with her face propped on her fist.

“Eh!” Mihail Averyanitch would sigh.  “To expect intelligence of this generation!”

And he would describe how wholesome, entertaining, and interesting life had been in the past.  How intelligent the educated class in Russia used to be, and what lofty ideas it had of honour and friendship; how they used to lend money without an IOU, and it was thought a disgrace not to give a helping hand to a comrade in need; and what campaigns, what adventures, what skirmishes, what comrades, what women!  And the Caucasus, what a marvellous country!  The wife of a battalion commander, a queer woman, used to put on an officer’s uniform and drive off into the mountains in the evening, alone, without a guide.  It was said that she had a love affair with some princeling in the native village.

“Queen of Heaven, Holy Mother...”  Daryushka would sigh.

“And how we drank!  And how we ate!  And what desperate liberals we were!”

Andrey Yefimitch would listen without hearing; he was musing as he sipped his beer.

“I often dream of intellectual people and conversation with them,” he said suddenly, interrupting Mihail Averyanitch.  “My father gave me an excellent education, but under the influence of the ideas of the sixties made me become a doctor.  I believe if I had not obeyed him then, by now I should have been in the very centre of the intellectual movement.  Most likely I should have become a member of some university.  Of course, intellect, too, is transient