Thoughtfully, he drummed with his fingers against the table and examined his face, which was reflected in the brightly polished brass of the samovar.

Then he raised his head, winked his eyes and said impressively and irritably: "They are not men, they are sores! The blood of the Russian people has become mixed, it has become mixed and spoiled, and from the bad blood have come all these book and newspaper-writers, these terrible Pharisees.

They have broken out everywhere, and they are still breaking out, more and more.

Whence comes this spoiling of the blood?
From slowness of motion.

Whence the mosquitoes, for instance?
From the swamp.
All sorts of uncleanliness multiply in stagnant waters.