“One won’t do anything by art and science, that is clear⁠ ⁠…” thought Vassilyev. “The only way out of it is missionary work.”

And he began to dream how he would the next evening stand at the corner of the street and say to every passerby: “Where are you going and what for? Have some fear of God!”

He would turn to the apathetic cabmen and say to them: “Why are you staying here? Why aren’t you revolted? Why aren’t you indignant? I suppose you believe in God and know that it is a sin, that people go to hell for it? Why don’t you speak? It is true that they are strangers to you, but you know even they have fathers, brothers like yourselves.⁠ ⁠…”

One of Vassilyev’s friends had once said of him that he was a talented man. There are all sorts of talents⁠—talent for writing, talent for the stage, talent for art; but he had a peculiar talent⁠—a talent for humanity . He possessed an extraordinarily fine delicate scent for pain in general. As a good actor reflects in himself the movements and voice of others, so Vassilyev could reflect in his soul the sufferings of others. When he saw tears, he wept; beside a sick man, he felt sick himself and moaned; if he saw an act of violence, he felt as though he himself were the victim of it, he was frightened as a child, and in his fright ran to help. The pain of others worked on his nerves, excited him, roused him to a state of frenzy, and so on.

Whether this friend were right I don’t know, but what Vassilyev experienced when he thought this question was settled was something like inspiration. He cried and laughed, spoke aloud the words that he should say next day, felt a fervent love for those who would listen to him and would stand beside him at the corner of the street to preach; he sat down to write letters, made vows to himself.⁠ ⁠…