me. . . I, too, do not believe myself, as I do not know whom in me to believe. Shall it be in thought, dastardly and worthless—that unfaithful servant who waits upon all? It is good only with which to clean one's boots, and I made it my friend, my god. Off with you from the throne, wretched, impotent thought!
What am I then, gentlemen experts—insane or not?
Masha, charming woman, you know something that I do not know. Tell me, of whom shall I seek help?
I know your answer, Masha. No, I don't mean that. You are a good and gracious woman, Masha, but you know neither physics nor chemistry. Not once have you been to the theatre, and, busily bent upon your daily tasks, you do not so much as suspect that the object upon which you live twirls. It twirls, Masha, it twirls, and we twirl with it. You are a child, Masha, a dull-witted creature, almost a plant, and I
