Tolstoy, they were not sexton's
children."

"Gontcharov was a merchant," said Meier.

"Well, the exception only proves the rule. Besides, Gontcharov's
genius is quite open to dispute. But let us drop names and turn to
facts. What would you say, my good sir, for instance, to this
eloquent fact: when one of the mob forces his way where he has not
been permitted before, into society, into the world of learning,
of literature, into the Zemstvo or the law courts, observe, Nature
herself, first of all, champions the higher rights of humanity, and
is the first to wage war on the rabble. As soon as the plebeian
forces himself into a place he is not fit for he begins to ail, to
go into consumption, to go out of his mind, and to degenerate, and
nowhere do we find so many puny, neurotic wrecks, consumptives, and
starvelings of all sorts as among these darlings. They die like
flies in autumn. If it were not for this providential degeneration
there would not have been a stone left standing of our civilization,
the rabble would have demolished everything. Tell me, if you please,
what has the inroad of the barbarians given us so far? What has the
rabble brought with it?" Rashevitch assumed a mysterious, frightened
expression, and went on: "Never has literature and learning been
at such low ebb among us as now. The men of to-day, my good sir,
have neither ideas nor ideals, and all their sayings and doings are
permeated by one spirit--to get all they can and to strip someone
to his last thread. All these men of to-day who give themselves out
as honest and progressive people can be bought at a rouble a piece,
and the distinguishing mark of the 'intellectual' of to-day is that
you have to keep strict watch over your pocket when you talk to
him, or else he will run off with your purse." Rashevitch winked
and burst out laughing. "Upon my soul, he will! he said, in a thin,
gleeful voice. "And morals! What of their morals?" Rashevitch looked
round towards the door. "No one is surprised nowadays when a wife
robs and leaves her husband. What's that, a trifle! Nowadays, my
dear boy, a chit of a girl of twelve is scheming to get a lover,
and all these amateur theatricals and literary evenings are only
invented to make it easier to get a rich merchant to take a girl
on as his mistress. . . . Mothers sell their daughters, and people
make no bones about asking a husband at what price he sells his
wife, and one can haggle over the bargain, you kno