I drew back. I was as sure as twice two make four that he would not get off without a catastrophe. Meanwhile, as I stood utterly dejected, I saw moving before me again the figure of the professor, whose turn it was to appear after Stepan Trofimovitch, and who kept lifting up his fist and bringing it down again with a swing. He kept walking up and down, absorbed in himself and muttering something to himself with a diabolical but triumphant smile. I somehow almost unintentionally went up to him. I don’t know what induced me to meddle again. “Do you know,” I said, “judging from many examples, if a lecturer keeps an audience for more than twenty minutes it won’t go on listening. No celebrity is able to hold his own for half an hour.”

He stopped short and seemed almost quivering with resentment. Infinite disdain was expressed in his countenance.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he muttered contemptuously and walked on. At that moment Stepan Trofimovitch’s voice rang out in the hall.

“Oh, hang you all,” I thought, and ran to the hall.