»No, I do not,« the girl retorted harshly, but listening attentively.
»Some do it out of stupidity, some for spite. Because, Liuba, a common man cannot endure a fine man, and the wicked do not love the good....«
»What should they love them for?«
»Don't think, Liuba, that I am simply praising myself. But just look what my life has been, what it is! From the age of fourteen I have been rubbing along in prisons, expelled from school, expelled from home. My parents drove me out. Once I was nearly shot dead, saved only by a miracle. Try to picture it—all one's life passed in this way, all for the sake of others, and for oneself, nothing—yes, nothing!«
»And what induced you to be so ... fine?« she asked jeeringly. But he replied seriously:
»I don't know. I must have been born so.«
»And I was born such a common sort of thing! And yet I came into the world the same way you did, didn't I?«
But he was not listening. All his mind was held by the vision of his own past, so unexpectedly, so simply heroic, called up by his own words.
»Yes ... think of it ... I'm 26 years old and there are already grey hairs on my head, and yet until today ...« he hesitated a moment and went on firmly, proudly. »Up to now I have never known a woman.... Never ... do you understand? You are the first I even see ... like that. And to tell the truth, I am just a little ashamed to be looking at your bare arms.«
The music rose again wildly, and the floor vibrated with the rhythm of dancing feet, broken by a drunken man's wild whoop, as though he were heading off a herd of stampeding horses. But in the room it was still, and the tobacco smoke rose serenely and melted into a ruddy mist.