Ivan Dmitritch suddenly lost the thread of his thoughts, stopped, and rubbed his forehead with vexation.

“I meant to say something important, but I have lost it,” he said.  “What was I saying?  Oh, yes!  This is what I mean:  one of the Stoics sold himself into slavery to redeem his neighbour, so, you see, even a Stoic did react to stimulus, since, for such a generous act as the destruction of oneself for the sake of one’s neighbour, he must have had a soul capable of pity and indignation.  Here in prison I have forgotten everything I have learned, or else I could have recalled something else.  Take Christ, for instance:  Christ responded to reality by weeping, smiling, being sorrowful and moved to wrath, even overcome by misery.  He did not go to meet His sufferings with a smile, He did not despise death, but prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane that this cup might pass Him by.”

Ivan Dmitritch laughed and sat down.

“Granted that a man’s peace and contentment lie not outside but in himself,” he said, “granted that one must despise suffering and not be surprised at anything, yet on what ground do you preach the theory?  Are you a sage?  A philosopher?”

“No, I am not a philosopher, but everyone ought to preach it because it is reasonable.”

“No, I want to know how it is that you consider yourself competent to judge of ‘comprehension,’ contempt for suffering, and so on.  Have you ever suffered?  Have you any idea of suffering?  Allow me to ask you, were you ever thrashed in your childhood?”

“No, my parents had an aversion for corporal punishment.”

“My father used to flog me cruelly; my father was a harsh, sickly Government clerk with a long nose and a yellow neck.  But let us talk of you.  No one has laid a finger on you all your life, no one has scared you nor beaten you; you are as strong as a bull.  You grew up under your father’s wing and studied at his expense, and then you dropped at once into a sinecure.  For more than twenty years you have lived rent free with heating, lighting, and service all provided, and had the right to work how you pleased and as much as you pleased, even to do nothing.  You were naturally a flabby, lazy man, and so you have tried to arrange your life so that nothing should disturb you or make you move.  You have handed over your work to the assistant and the rest of the rabble while you sit in peace and warmth, save money, read, amuse yourself with reflections, with all sorts of lofty nonsense, and” (Ivan Dmitritch looked at the doctor’s red nose) “with boozing; in fact, you have seen nothing of life, you know absolutely nothing of it, and are only theoretically acquainted with reality; you despise suffering and are surprised at nothing for a very simple reason:  vanity of vanities, the external and the internal, contempt for life, for suffering and for death, comprehension, true happiness—­that’s the philosophy that suits the Russian sluggard best.  You see