"
"Enough of joking!" incredulously retorted Lichonin. "Then what
compels you to pass days and nights here? Were you a writer--it
would be a different matter. It's easy to find an explanation;
well, you're gathering types or something ... observing life ...
After the manner of that German professor who lived for three
years with monkeys, in order to study closely their language and
manners. But you yourself said that you don't indulge in writing?"
"It isn't that I don't indulge, but I simply don't know how--I
can't."
"We'll write that down. Now let's suppose another thing--that you
come here as an apostle of a better, honest life, in the nature of
a, now, saviour of perishing souls. You know, as in the dawn of
Christianity certain holy fathers instead of standing on a column
for thirty years or living in a cave in the woods, went to the
market places, into houses of mirth, to the harlots and
scaramuchios. But you aren't inclined that way."
"I'm not."
"Then why, the devil take it, do you hang around here? I can see
very well that a great deal here is revolting and oppressive and
painful to your own self.
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