It was clear to him, too, that everything that is called human dignity, personal rights, the Divine image and semblance, were defiled to their very foundations—­“to the very marrow,” as drunkards say—­and that not only the street and the stupid women were responsible for it.

A group of students, white with snow, passed him laughing and talking gaily; one, a tall thin fellow, stopped, glanced into Vassilyev’s face, and said in a drunken voice: 

“One of us!  A bit on, old man?  Aha-ha!  Never mind, have a good time!  Don’t be down-hearted, old chap!”

He took Vassilyev by the shoulder and pressed his cold wet mustache against his cheek, then he slipped, staggered, and, waving both hands, cried: 

“Hold on!  Don’t upset!”

And laughing, he ran to overtake his companions.

Through the noise came the sound of the artist’s voice: 

“Don’t you dare to hit the women!  I won’t let you, damnation take you!  You scoundrels!”

The medical student appeared in the doorway.  He looked from side to side, and seeing Vassilyev, said in an agitated voice: 

“You here!  I tell you it’s really impossible to go anywhere with Yegor!  What a fellow he is!  I don’t understand him!  He has got up a scene!  Do you hear?  Yegor!” he shouted at the door.  “Yegor!”

“I won’t allow you to hit women!” the artist’s piercing voice sounded from above.  Something heavy and lumbering rolled down the stairs.  It was the artist falling headlong.  Evidently he had been pushed downstairs.

He picked himself up from the ground, shook his hat, and, with an angry and indignant face, brandished his fist towards the top of the stairs and shouted: 

“Scoundrels!  Torturers!  Bloodsuckers!  I won’t allow you to hit them!  To hit a weak, drunken woman!  Oh, you brutes!...”

“Yegor!...  Come, Yegor!...” the medical student began imploring him.  “I give you my word of honor I’ll never come with you again.  On my word of honor I won’t!”

Little by little the artist was pacified and the friends went homewards.

“Against my will an unknown force,” hummed the medical student, “has led me to these mournful shores.”

“Behold t he mill,” the artist chimed in a little later, “in ruins now.  What a lot of snow, Holy Mother!  Grisha, why did you go?  You are a funk, a regular old woman.”

Vassilyev walked behind his companions, looked at their backs, and thought: 

“One of two things:  either we only fancy prostitution is an evil, and we exaggerate it; or, if prostitution really is as great an evil as is generally assumed, these dear friends of mine are as much slaveowners, violators, and murderers, as the inhabitants of Syria and Cairo, that are described in the ‘Neva.’  Now they are singing, laughing, talking sense, but haven’t they just been exploiting hunger, ignorance, and stupidity?  They have—­I have been