everything what was vulgar. There was an outburst all of a sudden from Voroshilov; in a single breath, almost choking himself, he mentioned Draper, Virchow, Shelgunov, Bichat, Helmholtz, Star, St. Raymund, Johann Müller the physiologist, and Johann Müller the historian—obviously confounding them—Taine, Renan, Shtchapov; and then Thomas Nash, Peele, Greene.... ‘What sort of queer fish may they be?’ Bambaev muttered bewildered, Shakespeare’s predecessors having the same relation-36- to him as the ranges of the Alps to Mont Blanc. Voroshilov replied cuttingly, and he too touched on the future of Russia. Bambaev also spoke of the future of Russia, and even depicted it in glowing colours: but he was thrown into special raptures over the thought of Russian music, in which he saw something. ‘Ah! great indeed!’ and in confirmation he began humming a song of Varlamov’s, but was soon interrupted by a general shout, ‘He is singing the Miserere from the Trovatore, and singing it excruciatingly too.’ One little officer was reviling Russian literature in the midst of the hubbub; another was quoting verses from Sparks; but Tit Bindasov went even further; he declared that all these swindlers ought to have their teeth knocked out, ... and that’s all about it, but he did not particularise who were the swindlers alluded to. The smoke from the cigars became stifling; all were hot and exhausted, every one was hoarse, all eyes were growing dim, and the perspiration stood out in drops on every face. Bottles of iced beer were brought in and drunk off instantaneously. ‘What was I saying?’ remarked one; ‘and with whom was I disputing, and about what?’ inquired another. And among all the uproar and the smoke, Gubaryov walked indefatigably up and down as before, swaying from side to side and