“As I take it,” cried Schafroff, “man, individually, is a mere nothing.”
Yourii looked at the speaker’s dull, unintelligent countenance, with its tired little eyes behind their glasses, and thought that such a man as that was in truth nothing.
“The individual is a cypher. It is only they who emerge from the masses, yet are never out of touch with them, and who do not oppose the crowd, as bourgeois heroes usually do—it is only they who have real strength.”
“And in what does such strength consist, pray?” asked Ivanoff aggressively, as he leant across the table. “Is it in fighting against the actual government? Very likely. But in their struggle for personal happiness, how can the masses help them?”
“Ah! there you go! You’re a super-man, and want happiness of a special kind to suit yourself. But, we men of the masses, we think that in fighting for the welfare of others our own happiness lies. The triumph of the idea—that is happiness!”
“Yet, suppose the idea is a false one?”
“That doesn’t matter. Belief’s the thing!” Schafroff tossed his head stubbornly.
“Bah!” said Ivanoff in a contemptuous tone, “every man believes that his own occupation is the most important and most indispensable thing in the whole world. Even a ladies’ tailor thinks so. You know that perfectly well, but apparently you have forgotten it; therefore, as a friend I am bound to remind you of the fact.”
With involuntary hatred Yourii regarded Ivanoff’s flabby, perspiring face, and grey, lustreless eyes.
“And, in your opinion, what constitutes happiness, pray?” he asked, as his lips curled in contempt.