ne to do with those in Hamburg?"

The lamp in which the oil had burnt down began to smoke. Vassilyev did
not notice it. He began pacing to and fro again, still thinking. Now he
put the question differently: what must be done that fallen women should
not be needed? For that, it was essential that the men who buy them
and do them to death should feel all the immorality of their share in
enslaving them and should be horrified. One must save the men.

"One won't do anything by art and science, that is clear..." thought
Vassilyev. "The only way out of it is missionary work."

And he began to dream how he would the next evening stand at the corner
of the street and say to every passer-by: "Where are you going and what
for? Have some fear of God!"

He would turn to the apathetic cabmen and say to them: "Why are you
staying here? Why aren't you revolted? Why aren't you indignant? I
suppose you believe in God and know that it is a sin, that people go to
hell for it? Why don't you speak? It is true that they are strangers
to you, but you know even they have fathers, brothers like
yourselves...."

One of Vassilyev's friends had once said of him that he was a talented
man. There are all sorts of talents--talent for writing, talent for
the stage, talent for art; but he had a peculiar talent--a talent for
_humanity_. He possessed an extraordinarily fine delicate scent for pain
in general. As a good actor reflects in himself the movements and voice
of others, so Vassilyev could reflect in his soul the sufferings of
others. When he saw tears, he wept; beside a sick man, he felt sick
himself and moaned; if he saw an act of violence, he felt as though he
himself were the victim of it, he was frightened as a child, and in his
fright ran to help. The pain of others worked on his nerves, excited
him, roused him to a state of frenzy, and so on.

Whether this friend were right I don't know, but what Vassilyev
experienced when he thought this question was settled was something like
inspiration. He cried and laughed, spoke aloud the words that he should
say next day, felt a fervent love for those who would listen to him and
would stand beside him at the corner of the street to preach; he sat
down to write letters, made vows to himself....

All this was like inspiration also from the fact that it did not last
long. Vassilyev was soon tired. The cases in London, in Hamburg, in
Warsaw, weighed upon him by their mass as a mountain weighs upo