coat
and high boots, I assumed a drunken, servile mug and went to the agents:
'Give us a little ticket, your honour,' said I...."

"Why, what class do you belong to?" asked a sailor.

"Clerical. My father was an honest priest, he always told the great ones
of the world the truth to their faces; and he had a great deal to put up
with in consequence."

Pavel Ivanitch was exhausted with talking and gasped for breath, but
still went on:

"Yes, I always tell people the truth to their faces. I am not afraid of
anyone or anything. There is a vast difference between me and all of you
in that respect. You are in darkness, you are blind, crushed; you see
nothing and what you do see you don't understand.... You are told the
wind breaks loose from its chain, that you are beasts, Petchenyegs, and
you believe it; they punch you in the neck, you kiss their hands; some
animal in a sable-lined coat robs you and then tips you fifteen
kopecks and you: 'Let me kiss your hand, sir.' You are pariahs, pitiful
people.... I am a different sort. My eyes are open, I see it all as
clearly as a hawk or an eagle when it floats over the earth, and I
understand it all. I am a living protest. I see irresponsible tyranny--I
protest. I see cant and hypocrisy--I protest. I see swine triumphant--I
protest. And I cannot be suppressed, no Spanish Inquisition can make
me hold my tongue. No.... Cut out my tongue and I would protest in dumb
show; shut me up in a cellar--I will shout from it to be heard half a
mile away, or I will starve myself to death that they may have another
weight on their black consciences. Kill me and I will haunt them with
my ghost. All my acquaintances say to me: 'You are a most insufferable
person, Pavel Ivanitch.' I am proud of such a reputation. I have served
three years in the far East, and I shall be remembered there for a
hundred years: I had rows with everyone. My friends write to me from
Russia, 'Don't come back,' but here I am going back to spite them...
yes.... That is life as I understand it. That is what one can call
life."

Gusev was looking at the little window and was not listening. A boat
was swaying on the transparent, soft, turquoise water all bathed in hot,
dazzling sunshine. In it there were naked Chinamen holding up cages with
canaries and calling out:

"It sings, it sings!"

Another boat knocked against the first; the steam cutter darted by. And
then there came another boat with a fat Chinaman sitting in