But the sub-professor Yarchenko was obstinate and seemed really angered, although, perhaps, he himself did not know what was lurking within him, in some dark cranny of his soul.

“Leave me in peace, Lichonin.  As I see it, gentlemen, this is downright and plain swinishness—­that which you are about to do.  We have passed the time so wonderfully, amiably and simply, it seems,—­but no, you needs must, like drunken cattle, clamber into a cesspool.  I won’t go.”

“Still, if my memory does not play me false,” said Lichonin, with calm causticity, “I recollect that no further back than past autumn we with a certain future Mommsen were pouring in some place or other a jug of ice into a pianoforte, delineating a Bouratian god, dancing the belly-dance, and all that sort of thing?”

Lichonin spoke the truth.  In his student days, and later, being retained at the university, Yarchenko had led the most wanton and crack-brained life.  In all the taverns, cabarets, and other places of amusement his small, fat, roundish little figure, his rosy cheeks, puffed out like those of a painted cupid, and the shining, humid kindly eyes were well known, his hurried, spluttering speech and shrill laughter remembered.

His comrades could never fathom where he found the time to employ in study, but nevertheless he went through all examinations and prescribed work with distinction and from the first course the professors had him in view.  Now Yarchenko was beginning little by little to quit his former comrades and bottle companions.  He had just established the indispensable connections with the professorial circle; the reading of lectures in Roman history for the coming year had been offered him, and not infrequently in conversation he would use the expression current among the sub-professors:  “We, the learned ones!” The student familiarity, the compulsory companionship, the obligatory participation in all meetings, protests and demonstrations, were becoming disadvantageous to him, embarrassing, and even simply tedious.  But he knew the value of popularity among the younger element, and for that reason could not decide to sever relations abruptly with his former circle.  Lichonin’s words, however, provoked him.

“Oh, my God, what does it matter what we did when we were youngsters?  We stole sugar, soiled our panties, tore the wings off beetles,” Yarchenko began to speak, growing heated, and spluttering.  “But there is a limit and a mean to all this.  I, gentlemen, do not presume, of course, to give you counsels and to teach you, but one must be consistent.  We are all agreed that prostitution is one of the greatest calamities of humanity, and are also agreed, that in this evil not the women are guilty, but we, men, because the demand gives birth to the offer.  And therefore if, having drunk a glass of wine too much, I still, notwithstanding my convictions, go to the prostitutes, I am committing a triple vileness:  before the unfortunate, foolish woman, whom I subject to the most degrading form of slavery for my filthy rouble; before humanity, because, hiring a public woman for an hour or two for my abominable lust, I through this justify and uphold prostitution; and finally, this is a vileness before one’s own conscience and mind.  And before logic.”