And, indeed, all became silent; either for fear lest they might lose his good will, or, perhaps, afraid that he, that healthy and strong beast, might beat them. They sat in silence about a minute, concealing their anger at him, bending over the plates and attempting to hide from him their fright and embarrassment. Foma measured them with a self-satisfied look, and gratified by their slavish submissiveness, said boastfully:

"Ah! You've grown dumb now, that's the way! I am strict! I—"

"You sluggard!" came some one's calm, loud exclamation.

"Wha-at?" roared Foma, jumping up from his chair. "Who said that?"

Then a certain, strange, shabby-looking man arose at the end of the table; he was tall, in a long frock-coat, with a heap of grayish hair on his large head. His hair was stiff, standing out in all directions in thick locks, his face was yellow, unshaven, with a long, crooked nose. To Foma it seemed that he resembled a swab with which the steamer decks are washed, and this amused the half-intoxicated fellow.

"How fine!" said he, sarcastically. "What are you snarling at, eh? Do you know who I am?"

With the gesture of a tragic actor the man stretched out to Foma his hand, with its long, pliant fingers like those of a juggler, and he said in a deep hoarse basso:

"You are the rotten disease of your father, who, though he was a plunderer, was nevertheless a worthy man in comparison with you."

Because of the unexpectedness of this, and because of his wrath, Foma's heart shrank. He fiercely opened his eyes wide and kept silent, finding no words to reply to this insolence. And the man, standing before him, went on hoarsely, with animation, beastlike rolling his large, but dim and swollen, eyes:

"You demand of us respect for you, you fool! How have you merited it? Who are you? A drunkard, drinking away the fortune of your father. You savage! You ought to be proud that I, a renowned artist, a disinterested and faithful worshipper at the shrine of art, drink from the same bottle with you! This bottle contains sandal and molasses, infused with snuff-tobacco, while you think it is port wine. It is your license for the name of savage and ass."

"Eh, you jailbird!" roared Foma, rushing toward the artist. But he was seized and held back. Struggling in the arms of those that seized him, he was compelled to listen without replying, to the thundering, deep and heavy bass of the man who resembled a swab.

"You have thrown to men a few copecks out of the stolen roubles, and you consider yourself a hero! You are twice a thief. You have stolen the roubles and now you are stealing gratitude for your few copecks! But I shall not give it to you! I, who have devoted all my life to the condemnation of vice, I stand before you and say openly: 'You are a fool and a beggar because you are too rich! Here lies the wisdom: all the rich are beggars.' That's how the famous coupletist, Rimsky-Kannibalsky, serves Truth!"

Foma was now standing meekly among the people that had closely surrounded him, and he eagerly listened to the coupletist's thundering words, which now aroused in him a sensation as though somebody was scratching a sore spot, and thus soothing the acute itching of the pain. The people were excited; some attempted to check the coupletist's flow of eloquence, others wanted to lead Foma away somewhere. Without saying a word he pushed them aside and listened, more and more absorbed by the intense pleasure of humiliation which he felt in the presence of these people. The pain irritated by the words of the coupletist, caressed Foma's soul more and more passionately, and the coupletist went on thundering, intoxicated with the impurity of his accusation:

"You think that you are the master of life? You are the low slave of the rouble."

Someone in the crowd hiccoughed, and, evidently displeased with himself for this, cursed each time he hiccoughed:

"Oh devil."

And a certain, unshaven, fat-faced man took pity on Foma, or, perhaps, became tired of witnessing that scene, and, waving his hands, he drawled out plaintively:

"Gentlemen, drop that! It isn't good! For we are all sinners! Decidedly all, believe me!"

"Well, speak on!" muttered Foma. "Say everything! I won't touch you."

The mirrors on the walls reflected this drunken confusion, and the people, as reflected in the mirrors, seemed more disgusting and hideous than they were in reality.

"I do not want to speak!" exclaimed the coupletist, "I do not want to cast the pearls of truth and of my wrath before you."

He rushed forward, and raising his head majestically, turned toward the door with tragic footsteps.

"You lie!" said Foma, attempting to follow him. "Hold on! you have made me agitated, now calm me."

They seized him, surrounded him and shouted something to him while he was rushing forward, overturning everybody. When he met tactile obstacles on his way the struggle with them gave him ease, uniting all his riotous feelings into one yearning to overthrow that which hindered him. And now, after he had jostled them all aside and rushed out into the street, he was already less agitated. Standing on the sidewalk he looked about the street and thought with shame:

"How could I permit that swab to mock me and abuse my father as a thief?"

It was dark and quiet about him, the moon was shining brightly, and a light refreshing breeze was blowing. Foma held his face to the cool breeze as he walked against the wind with rapid strides, timidly looking about on all sides, and wishing that none of the company from the tavern would follow him. He understood that he had lowered himself in the eyes of all these people. As he walked he thought of what he had come to: a sharper had publicly abused him in disgraceful terms, while he, the son of a well-known merchant, had not been able to repay him for his mocking.

"It serves me right!" thought Foma, sadly and bitterly. "That serves me right! Don't lose your head, understand. And then again, I wanted it myself. I interfered with everybody, so now, take your share!" These thoughts made him feel painfully sorry for himself. Seized and sobered by them he kept on strolling along the streets, and searching for something strong and firm in himself. But everything within him was confused; it merely oppressed his heart, without assuming any definite forms. As in a painful dream he reached the river, seated himself on the beams by the shore, and began to look at the calm dark water, which was covered with tiny ripples. Calmly and almost noiselessly flowed on the broad, mighty river, carrying enormous weights upon its bosom. The river was all covered with black vessels, the signal lights and the stars were reflected in its water; the tiny ripples, murmuring softly, were gently breaking against the shore at the very feet of Foma. Sadness was breathed down from the sky, the feeling of loneliness oppressed Foma.

"Oh Lord Jesus Christ!" thought he, sadly gazing at the sky. "What a failure I am. There is nothing in me. God has put nothing into me. Of what use am I? Oh Lord Jesus!"

At the recollection of Christ Foma felt somewhat better—his loneliness seemed alleviated, and heaving a deep sigh, he began to address God in silence:

"Oh Lord Jesus Christ! Other people do not understand anything either, but they think that all is known to them, and therefore it is easier for them to live. While I—I have no justification. Here it is night, and I am alone, I have no place to go, I am unable to say anything to anybody. I love no one—only my godfather, and he is soulless. If Thou hadst but punished him somehow! He thinks there is none cleverer and better on earth than himself. While Thou sufferest it. And the same with me. If some misfortune were but sent to me. If some illness were to overtake me. But here I am as strong as iron. I am drinking, leading a gay life. I live in filth, but the body does not even rust, and only my soul aches. Oh Lord! To what purpose is such a life?"

Vague thoughts of protest flashed one after another through the mind of the lonely, straying man, while the silence about him was growing deeper, and night ever darker and darker. Not far from the shore lay a boat at anchor; it rocked from side to side, and something was creaking in it as though moaning.

"How am I to free myself from such a life as this?" reflected Foma, staring at the boat. "And what occupation is destined to be mine? Everybody is working."

And suddenly he was struck by a thought which appeared great to him:

"And hard work is cheaper than easy work! Some man will give himself up entire to his work for a rouble, while another takes a thousand with one finger."

He was pleasantly roused by this thought. It seemed to him that he discovered another falsehood in the life of man, another fraud which they conceal. He recalled one of his stokers, the old man Ilya, who, for ten copecks, used to be on watch at the fireplace out of his turn, working for a comrade eight hours in succession, amid suffocating heat. One day, when he had fallen sick on account of overwork, he was lying on the bow of the steamer, and when Foma asked him why he was thus ruining himself, Ilya replied roughly and sternly:

"Because every copeck is more necessary to me than a hundred roubles to you. That's why!"

And, saying this, the old man turned his body, which was burning with pain, with its back to Foma.

Reflecting on the stoker his thoughts suddenly and without any effort, embraced all those petty people that were doing hard work. He wondered, Why do they live? What pleasure is it for them to live on earth? They constantly do but their dirty, hard work, they eat poorly, are poorly clad, they drink. One man is sixty years old, and yet he keeps on toiling side by side with the young fellows. And they all appeared to Foma as a huge pile of worms, which battled about on earth just to get something to eat. In his memory sprang up his meetings with these people, one after another—their remarks about life—now sarcastic and mournful, now hopelessly gloomy remarks—their wailing songs. And now he also recalled how one day in the office Yefim had said to the clerk who hired the sailors:

"Some Lopukhin peasants have come here to hire themselves out, so don't give them more than ten roubles a month. Their place was burned down to ashes last summer, and they are now in dire need—they'll work for ten roubles."

Sitting on the beams, Foma rocked his whole body to and fro, and out of the darkness, from the river, various human figures appeared silently before him—sailors, stokers, clerks, waiters, half-intoxicated painted women, and tavern-loungers. They floated in the air like shadows; something damp and brackish came from them, and the dark, dense throng moved on slowly, noiselessly and swiftly, like clouds in an autumn sky. The soft splashing of the waves poured into his soul like sadly sighing music. Far away, somewhere on the other bank of the river, burned a wood-pile; embraced by the darkness on all sides, it was at times almost absorbed by it, and in the darkness it trembled, a reddish spot scarcely visible to the eye. But now the fire flamed up again, the darkness receded, and it was evident that the flame was striving upward. And then it sank again.

"Oh Lord, Oh Lord!" thought Foma, painfully and bitterly, feeling that grief was oppressing his heart with ever greater power. "Here I am, alone, even as that fire. Only no light comes from me, nothing but fumes and smoke. If I could only meet a wise man! Someone to speak to. It is utterly impossible for me to live alone. I cannot do anything. I wish I might meet a man."

Far away, on the river, two large purple fires appeared, and high above them was a third. A dull noise resounded in the distance, something black was moving toward Foma.

"A steamer going up stream," he thought. "There may be more than a hundred people aboard, and none of them give a single thought to me. They all know whither they are sailing. Every one of them has something that is his own. Every one, I believe, understands what he wants. But what do I want? And who will tell it to me? Where is such a man?"

The lights of the steamer were reflected in the river, quivering in it; the illumined water rushed away from it with a dull murmur, and the steamer looked like a huge black fish with fins of fire.

A few days elapsed after this painful night, and Foma caroused again. It came about by accident and against his will. He had made up his mind to restrain himself from drinking, and so went to dinner in one of the most expensive hotels in town, hoping to find there none of his familiar drinking-companions, who always selected the cheaper and less respectable places for their drinking bouts. But his calculation proved to be wrong; he at once came into the friendly joyous embrace of the brandy-distiller's son, who had taken Sasha as mistress.

He ran up to Foma, embraced him and burst into merry laughter.

"Here's a meeting! This is the third day I have eaten here, and I am wearied by this terrible lonesomeness. There is not a decent man in the whole town, so I have had to strike up an acquaintance with newspaper men. They're a gay lot, although at first they played the aristocrat and kept sneering at me. After awhile we all got dead drunk. They'll be here again today—I swear by the fortune of my father! I'll introduce you to them. There is one writer of feuilletons here; you know, that some one who always lauded you, what's his name? An amusing fellow, the devil take him! Do you know it would be a good thing to hire one like that for personal use! Give him a certain sum of money and order him to amuse! How's that? I had a certain coupletist in my employ,—it was rather entertaining to be with him. I used to say to him sometimes: 'Rimsky! give us some couplets!' He would start, I tell you, and he'd make you split your sides with laughter. It's a pity, he ran off somewhere. Have you had dinner?"

"Not yet. And how's Aleksandra?" asked Foma, somewhat deafened by the loud speech of this tall, frank, red-faced fellow clad in a motley costume.

"Well, do you know," said the latter with a frown, "that Aleksandra of yours is a nasty woman! She's so obscure, it's tiresome to be with her, the devil take her! She's as cold as a frog,—brrr! I guess I'll send her away."

"Cold—that's true," said Foma and became pensive. "Every person must do his work in a first class manner," said the distiller's son, instructively. "And if you become some one's s mistress you must perform your duty in the best way possible, if you are a decent woman. Well, shall we have a drink?"

They had a drink. And naturally they got drunk. A large and noisy company gathered in the hotel toward evening. And Foma, intoxicated, but sad and calm, spoke to them with heavy voice:

"That's the way I understand it: some people are worms, others sparrows. The sparrows are the merchants. They peck the worms. Such is their destined lot. They are necessary But I and you—all of you—are to no purpose. We live so that we cannot be compared to anything—without justification, merely at random. And we are utterly unnecessary. But even these here, and everybody else, to what purpose are they? You must understand that. Brethren! We shall all burst! By God! And why shall we burst? Because there is always something superfluous in us, there is something superfluous in our souls. And all our life is superfluous! Comrades! I weep. To what purpose am I? I am unnecessary! Kill me, that I may die; I want to die."

And he wept, shedding many drunken tears. A drunken, small-sized, swarthy man sat down close to him, began to remind him of something, tried to kiss him, and striking a knife against the table, shouted:

"True! Silence! These are powerful words! Let the elephants and the mammoths of the disorder of life speak! The raw Russian conscience speaks holy words! Roar on, Gordyeeff! Roar at everything!" And again he clutched at Foma's shoulders, flung himself on his breast, raising to Foma's face his round, black, closely-cropped head, which was ceaselessly turning about on his shoulders on all sides, so that Foma was unable to see his face, and he was angry at him for this, and kept on pushing him aside, crying excitedly:

"Get away! Where is your face? Go on!"

A deafening, drunken laughter smote the air about them, and choking with laughter, the son of the brandy-distiller roared to someone hoarsely:

"Come to me! A hundred roubles a month with board and lodging! Throw the paper to the dogs. I'll give you more!"

And everything rocked from side to side in rhythmic, wave-like movement. Now the people moved farther away from Foma, now they came nearer to him, the ceiling descended, the floor rose, and it seemed to Foma that he would soon be flattened and crushed. Then he began to feel that he was floating somewhere over an immensely wide and stormy river, and, staggering, he cried out in fright:

"Where are we floating? Where is the captain?"

He was answered by the loud, senseless laughter of the drunken crowd, and by the shrill, repulsive shout of the swarthy little man:

"True! we are all without helm and sails. Where is the captain? What? Ha, ha, ha!"

Foma awakened from this nightmare in a small room with two windows, and the first thing his eyes fell upon was a withered tree. It stood near the window; its thick trunk, barkless, with a rotten heart, prevented the light from entering the room; the bent, black branches, devoid of leaves, stretched themselves mournfully and helplessly in the air, and shaking to and fro, they creaked softly, plaintively. A rain was falling; streams of water were beating against the window-panes, and one could hear how the water was falling to the ground from the roof, sobbing there. This sobbing sound was joined by another sound—a shrill, often interrupted, hasty scratching of a pen over paper, and then by a certain spasmodic grumbling.

When he turned with difficulty his aching, heavy head on the pillow, Foma noticed a small, swarthy man, who sat by the table hastily scratching with his pen over the paper, shaking his round head approvingly, wagging it from side to side, shrugging his shoulders, and, with all his small body clothed in night garments only, constantly moving about in his chair, as though he were sitting on fire, and could not get up for some reason or other. His left hand, lean and thin, was now firmly rubbing his forehead, now making certain incomprehensible signs in the air; his bare feet scraped along the floor, a certain vein quivered on his neck, and even his ears were moving. When he turned toward Foma, Foma saw his thin lips whispering something, his sharp-pointed nose turned down to his thin moustache, which twitched upward each time the little man smiled. His face was yellow, bloated, wrinkled, and his black, vivacious small sparkling eyes did not seem to belong to him.

Having grown tired of looking at him, Foma slowly began to examine the room with his eyes. On the large nails, driven into the walls, hung piles of newspapers, which made the walls look as though covered with swellings. The ceiling was pasted with paper which had been white once upon a time; now it was puffed up like bladders, torn here and there, peeled off and hanging in dirty scraps; clothing, boots, books, torn pieces of paper lay scattered on the floor. Altogether the room gave one the impression that it had been scalded with boiling water.

The little man dropped the pen, bent over the table, drummed briskly on its edge with his fingers and began to sing softly in a faint voice:

"Take the drum and fear not,—And kiss the sutler girl aloud—That's the sense of learning—And that's philosophy."

Foma heaved a deed sigh and said:

"May I have some seltzer?"

"Ah!" exclaimed the little man, and jumping up from his chair, appeared at the wide oilcloth-covered lounge, where Foma lay. "How do you do, comrade! Seltzer? Of course! With cognac or plain?"

"Better with cognac," said Foma, shaking the lean, burning hand which was outstretched to him, and staring fixedly into the face of the little man.

"Yegorovna!" cried the latter at the door, and turning to Foma, asked: "Don't you recognise me, Foma Ignatyevich?"

"I remember something. It seems to me we had met somewhere before."

"That meeting lasted for four years, but that was long ago! Yozhov."

"Oh Lord!" exclaimed Foma, in astonishment, slightly rising from the lounge. "Is it possible that it is you?"

"There are times, dear, when I don't believe it myself, but a real fact is something from which doubt jumps back as a rubber ball from iron."

Yozhov's face was comically distorted, and for some reason or other his hands began to feel his breast.

"Well, well!" drawled out Foma. "But how old you have grown! Ah-ah! How old are you?"

"Thirty."

"And you look as though you were fifty, lean, yellow. Life isn't sweet to you, it seems? And you are drinking, too, I see."

Foma felt sorry to see his jolly and brisk schoolmate so worn out, and living in this dog-hole, which seemed to be swollen from burns. He looked at him, winked his eyes mournfully and saw that Yozhov's face was for ever twitching, and his small eyes were burning with irritation. Yozhov was trying to uncork the bottle of water, and thus occupied, was silent; he pressed the bottle between his knees and made vain efforts to take out the cork. And his impotence moved Foma.

"Yes; life has sucked you dry. And you have studied. Even science seems to help man but little," said Gordyeeff plaintively.

"Drink!" said Yozhov, turning pale with fatigue, and handing him the glass. Then he wiped his forehead, seated himself on the lounge beside Foma, and said:

"Leave science alone! Science is a drink of the gods; but it has not yet fermented sufficiently, and, therefore is not fit for use, like vodka which has not yet been purified from empyreumatic oil. Science is not ready for man's happiness, my friend. And those living people that use it get nothing but headaches. Like those you and I have at present. Why do you drink so rashly?"

"I? What else am I to do?" asked Foma, laughing. Yozhov looked at Foma searchingly with his eyes half closed, and he said:

"Connecting your question with everything you jabbered last night, I feel within my troubled soul that you, too, my friend, do not amuse yourself because life is cheerful to you."

"Eh!" sighed Foma, heavily, rising from the lounge. "What is my life? It is something meaningless. I live alone. I understand nothing. And yet there is something I long for. I yearn to spit on all and then disappear somewhere! I would like to run away from everything. I am so weary!"

"That's interesting!" said Yozhov, rubbing his hands and turning about in all directions. "This is interesting, if it is true and deep, for it shows that the holy spirit of dissatisfaction with life has already penetrated into the bed chambers of the merchants, into the death chambers of souls drowned in fat cabbage soup, in lakes of tea and other liquids. Give me a circumstantial account of it. Then, my dear, I shall write a novel."

"I have been told that you have already written something about me?" inquired Foma, with curiosity, and once more attentively scrutinized his old friend unable to understand what so wretched a creature could write.

"Of course I have! Did you read it?"

"No, I did not have the chance."

"And what have they told you?"

"That you gave me a clever scolding."

"Hm! And doesn't it interest you to read it yourself?" inquired Yozhov, scrutinizing Gordyeeff closely.

"I'll read it!" Foma assured him, feeling embarrassed before Yozhov, and that Yozhov was offended by such regard for his writings. "Indeed, it is interesting since it is about myself," he added, smiling kindheartedly at his comrade.

In saying this he was not at all interested, and he said it merely out of pity for Yozhov. There was quite another feeling in him; he wished to know what sort of a man Yozhov was, and why he had become so worn out. This meeting with Yozhov gave rise in him to a tranquil and kind feeling; it called forth recollections of his childhood, and these flashed now in his memory,—flashed like modest little lights, timidly shining at him from the distance of the past. Yozhov walked up to the table on which stood a boiling samovar, silently poured out two glasses of tea as strong as tar, and said to Foma:

"Come and drink tea. And tell me about yourself."

"I have nothing to tell you. I have not seen anything in life. Mine is an empty life! You had better tell me about yourself. I am sure you know more than I do, at any rate."

Yozhov became thoughtful, not ceasing to turn his whole body and to waggle his head. In thoughtfulness his face became motionless, all its wrinkles gathered near his eyes and seemed to surround them with rays, and because of this his eyes receded deeper under his forehead.

"Yes, my dear, I have seen a thing or two, and I know a great deal," he began, with a shake of the head. "And perhaps I know even more than it is necessary for me to know, and to know more than it is necessary is just as harmful to man as it is to be ignorant of what it is essential to know. Shall I tell you how I have lived? Very well; that is, I'll try. I have never told any one about myself, because I have never aroused interest in anyone. It is most offensive to live on earth without arousing people's interest in you!"

"I can see by your face and by everything else that your life has not been a smooth one!" said Foma, feeling pleased with the fact that, to all appearances, life was not sweet to his comrade as well. Yozhov drank his tea at one draught, thrust the glass on the saucer, placed his feet on the edge of the chair, and clasping his knees in his hands, rested his chin upon them. In this pose, small sized and flexible as rubber, he began:

"The student Sachkov, my former teacher, who is now a doctor of medicine, a whist-player and a mean fellow all around, used to tell me whenever I knew my lesson well: 'You're a fine fellow, Kolya! You are an able boy. We proletariats, plain and poor people, coming from the backyard of life, we must study and study, in order to come to the front, ahead of everybody. Russia is in need of wise and honest people. Try to be such, and you will be master of your fate and a useful member of society. On us commoners rest the best hopes of the country. We are destined to bring into it light, truth,' and so on. I believed him, the brute. And since then about twenty years have elapsed. We proletariats have grown up, but have neither appropriated any wisdom, nor brought light into life. As before, Russia is still suffering from its chronic disease—a superabundance of rascals; while we, the proletariats, take pleasure in filling their dense throngs. My teacher, I repeat, is a lackey, a characterless and dumb creature, who must obey the orders of the mayor. While I am a clown in the employ of society. Fame pursues me here in town, dear. I walk along the street and I hear one driver say to another: 'There goes Yozhov! How cleverly he barks, the deuce take him!' Yes! Even this cannot be so easily attained."

Yozhov's face wrinkled into a bitter grimace, and he began to laugh, noiselessly, with his lips only. Foma did not understand his words, and, just to say something, he remarked at random:

"You didn't hit, then, what you aimed at?"

"Yes, I thought I would grow up higher. And so I should! So I should, I say!"

He jumped up from his chair and began to run about in the room, exclaiming briskly in a shrill voice:

"But to preserve one's self pure for life and to be a free man in it, one must have vast powers! I had them. I had elasticity, cleverness. I have spent all these in order to learn something which is absolutely unnecessary to me now. I have wasted the whole of myself in order to preserve something within myself. Oh devil! I myself and many others with me, we have all robbed ourselves for the sake of saving up something for life. Just think of it: desiring to make of myself a valuable man, I have underrated my individuality in every way possible. In order to study, and not die of starvation, I have for six years in succession taught blockheads how to read and write, and had to bear a mass of abominations at the hands of various papas and mammas, who humiliated me without any constraint. Earning my bread and tea, I could not, I had not the time to earn my shoes, and I had to turn to charitable institutions with humble petitions for loans on the strength of my poverty. If the philanthropists could only reckon up how much of the spirit they kill in man while supporting the life of his body! If they only knew that each rouble they give for bread contains ninety-nine copecks' worth of poison for the soul! If they could only burst from excess of their kindness and pride, which they draw from their holy activity! There is none on earth more disgusting and repulsive than he who gives alms, even as there is none more miserable than he who accepts it!"

Yozhov staggered about in the room like a drunken man, seized with madness, and the paper under his feet was rustling, tearing, flying in scraps. He gnashed his teeth, shook his head, his hands waved in the air like broken wings of a bird, and altogether it seemed as though he were being boiled in a kettle of hot water. Foma looked at him with a strange, mixed sensation; he pitied Yozhov, and at the same time he was pleased to see him suffering.

"I am not alone, he is suffering, too," thought Foma, as Yozhov spoke. And something clashed in Yozhov's throat, like broken glass, and creaked like an unoiled hinge.

"Poisoned by the kindness of men, I was ruined through the fatal capacity of every poor fellow during the making of his career, through the capacity of being reconciled with little in the expectation of much. Oh! Do you know, more people perish through lack of proper self-appreciation than from consumption, and perhaps that is why the leaders of the masses serve as district inspectors!"

"The devil take the district inspectors!" said Foma, with a wave of the hand. "Tell me about yourself."

"About myself! I am here entire!" exclaimed Yozhov, stopping short in the middle of the room, and striking his chest with his hands. "I have already accomplished all I could accomplish. I have attained the rank of the public's entertainer—and that is all I can do! To know what should be done, and not to be able to do it, not to have the strength for your work—that is torture!"

"That's it! Wait awhile!" said Foma, enthusiastically. "Now tell me what one should do in order to live calmly; that is, in order to be satisfied with one's self."

To Foma these words sounded loud, but empty, and their sounds died away without stirring any emotion in his heart, without giving rise to a single thought in his mind.

"You must always be in love with something unattainable to you. A man grows in height by stretching himself upwards."

Now that he had ceased speaking of himself, Yozhov began to talk more calmly, in a different voice. His voice was firm and resolute, and his face assumed an expression of importance and sternness. He stood in the centre of the room, his hand with outstretched fingers uplifted, and spoke as though he were reading:

"Men are base because they strive for satiety. The well-fed man is an animal because satiety is the self-contentedness of the body. And the self-contentedness of the spirit also turns man into animal."

Again he started as though all his veins and muscles were suddenly strained, and again he began to run about the room in seething agitation.

"A self-contented man is the hardened swelling on the breast of society. He is my sworn enemy. He fills himself up with cheap truths, with gnawed morsels of musty wisdom, and he exists like a storeroom where a stingy housewife keeps all sorts of rubbish which is absolutely unnecessary to her, and worthless. If you touch such a man, if you open the door into him, the stench of decay will be breathed upon you, and a stream of some musty trash will be poured into the air you breathe. These unfortunate people call themselves men of firm character, men of principles and convictions. And no one cares to see that convictions are to them but the clothes with which they cover the beggarly nakedness of their souls. On the narrow brows of such people there always shines the inscription so familiar to all: calmness and confidence. What a false inscription! Just rub their foreheads with firm hand and then you will see the real sign-board, which reads: 'Narrow mindedness and weakness of soul!'"

Foma watched Yozhov bustling about the room, and thought mournfully:

"Whom is he abusing? I can't understand; but I can see that he has been terribly wounded."

"How many such people have I seen!" exclaimed Yozhov, with wrath and terror. "How these little retail shops have multiplied in life! In them you will find calico for shrouds, and tar, candy and borax for the extermination of cockroaches, but you will not find anything fresh, hot, wholesome! You come to them with an aching soul exhausted by loneliness; you come, thirsting to hear something that has life in it. And they offer to you some worm cud, ruminated book-thoughts, grown sour with age. And these dry, stale thoughts are always so poor that, in order to give them expression, it is necessary to use a vast number of high-sounding and empty words. When such a man speaks I say to myself: 'There goes a well-fed, but over-watered mare, all decorated with bells; she's carting a load of rubbish out of the town, and the miserable wretch is content with her fate.'"

"They are superfluous people, then," said Foma. Yozhov stopped short in front of him and said with a biting smile on his lips:

"No, they are not superfluous, oh no! They exist as an example, to show what man ought not to be. Speaking frankly, their proper place is the anatomical museums, where they preserve all sorts of monsters and various sickly deviations from the normal. In life there is nothing that is superfluous, dear. Even I am necessary! Only those people, in whose souls dwells a slavish cowardice before life, in whose bosoms there are enormous ulcers of the most abominable self-adoration, taking the places of their dead hearts—only those people are superfluous; but even they are necessary, if only for the sake of enabling me to pour my hatred upon them."

All day long, until evening, Yozhov was excited, venting his blasphemy on men he hated, and his words, though their contents were obscure to Foma, infected him with their evil heat, and infecting called forth in him an eager desire for combat. At times there sprang up in him distrust of Yozhov, and in one of these moments he asked him plainly:

"Well! And can you speak like that in the face of men?"

"I do it at every convenient occasion. And every Sunday in the newspaper. I'll read some to you if you like."

Without waiting for Foma's reply, he tore down from the wall a few sheets of paper, and still continuing to run about the room, began to read to him. He roared, squeaked, laughed, showed his teeth and looked like an angry dog trying to break the chain in powerless rage. Not grasping the ideals in his friend's creations, Foma felt their daring audacity, their biting sarcasm, their passionate malice, and he was as well pleased with them as though he had been scourged with besoms in a hot bath.

"Clever!" he exclaimed, catching some separate phrase. "That's cleverly aimed!"

Every now and again there flashed before him the familiar names of merchants and well-known citizens, whom Yozhov had stung, now stoutly and sharply, now respectfully and with a fine needle-like sting.

Foma's approbation, his eyes burning with satisfaction, and his excited face gave Yozhov still more inspiration, and he cried and roared ever louder and louder, now falling on the lounge from exhaustion, now jumping up again and rushing toward Foma.

"Come, now, read about me!" exclaimed Foma, longing to hear it. Yozhov rummaged among a pile of papers, tore out one sheet, and holding it in both hands, stopped in front of Foma, with his legs straddled wide apart, while Foma leaned back in the broken-seated armchair and listened with a smile.

The notice about Foma started with a description of the spree on the rafts, and during the reading of the notice Foma felt that certain particular words stung him like mosquitoes. His face became more serious, and he bent his head in gloomy silence. And the mosquitoes went on multiplying.

"Now that's too much!" said he, at length, confused and dissatisfied. "Surely you cannot gain the favour of God merely because you know how to disgrace a man."

"Keep quiet! Wait awhile!" said Yozhov, curtly, and went on reading.

Having established in his article that the merchant rises beyond doubt above the representatives of other classes of society in the matter of nuisance and scandal-making, Yozhov asked: "Why is this so?" and replied:

"It seems to me that this predilection for wild pranks comes from the lack of culture in so far as it is dependent upon the excess of energy and upon idleness. There cannot be any doubt that our merchant class, with but few exceptions, is the healthiest and, at the same time, most inactive class."

"That's true!" exclaimed Foma, striking the table with his fist. "That's true! I have the strength of a bull and do the work of a sparrow."

"Where is the merchant to spend his energy? He cannot spend much of it on the Exchange, so he squanders the excess of his muscular capital in drinking-bouts in kabaky; for he has no conception of other applications of his strength, which are more productive, more valuable to life. He is still a beast, and life has already become to him a cage, and it is too narrow for him with his splendid health and predilection for licentiousness. Hampered by culture he at once starts to lead a dissolute life. The debauch of a merchant is always the revolt of a captive beast. Of course this is bad. But, ah! it will be worse yet, when this beast, in addition to his strength, shall have gathered some sense and shall have disciplined it. Believe me, even then he will not cease to create scandals, but they will be historical events. Heaven deliver us from such events! For they will emanate from the merchant's thirst for power; their aim will be the omnipotence of one class, and the merchant will not be particular about the means toward the attainment of this aim.

"Well, what do you say, is it true?" asked Yozhov, when he had finished reading the newspaper, and thrown it aside.

"I don't understand the end," replied Foma. "And as to strength, that is true! Where am I to make use of my strength since there is no demand for it! I ought to fight with robbers, or turn a robber myself. In general I ought to do something big. And that should be done not with the head, but with the arms and the breast. While here we have to go to the Exchange and try to aim well to make a rouble. What do we need it for? And what is it, anyway? Has life been arranged in this form forever? What sort of life is it, if everyone is grieved and finds it too narrow for him? Life ought to be according to the taste of man. If it is narrow for me, I must move it asunder that I may have more room. I must break it and reconstruct it. But nod? That's where the trouble lies! What ought to be done that life may be freer? That I do not understand, and that's all there is to it."

"Yes!" drawled out Yozhov. "So that's where you've gone! That, dear, is a good thing! Ah, you ought to study a little! How are you about books? Do you read any?"

"No, I don't care for them. I haven't read any."

"That's just why you don't care for them." "I am even afraid to read them. I know one—a certain girl—it's worse than drinking with her! And what sense is there in books? One man imagines something and prints it, and others read it. If it is interesting, it's all right. But learn from a book how to live!—that is something absurd. It was written by man, not by God, and what laws and examples can man establish for himself?"

"And how about the Gospels? Were they not written by men?"

"Those were apostles. Now there are none."

"Good, your refutation is sound! It is true, dear, there are no apostles. Only the Judases remained, and miserable ones at that."

Foma felt very well, for he saw that Yozhov was attentively listening to his words and seemed to be weighing each and every word he uttered. Meeting such bearing toward him for the first time in his life, Foma unburdened himself boldly and freely before his friend, caring nothing for the choice of words, and feeling that he would be understood because Yozhov wanted to understand him.

"You are a curious fellow!" said Yozhov, about two days after their meeting. "And though you speak with difficulty, one feels that there is a great deal in you—great daring of heart! If you only knew a little about the order of life! Then you would speak loud enough, I think. Yes!"

"But you cannot wash yourself clean with words, nor can you then free yourself," remarked Foma, with a sigh. "You have said something about people who pretend that they know everything, and can do everything. I also know such people. My godfather, for instance. It would be a good thing to set out against them, to convict them; they're a pretty dangerous set!"

"I cannot imagine, Foma, how you will get along in life if you preserve within you that which you now have," said Yozhov, thoughtfully.

"It's very hard. I lack steadfastness. Of a sudden I could perhaps do something. I understand very well that life is difficult and narrow for every one of us. I know that my godfather sees that, too! But he profits by this narrowness. He feels well in it; he is sharp as a needle, and he'll make his way wherever he pleases. But I am a big, heavy man, that's why I am suffocating! That's why I live in fetters. I could free myself from everything with a single effort: just to move my body with all my strength, and then all the fetters will burst!"

"And what then?" asked Yozhov.

"Then?" Foma became pensive, and, after a moment's thought, waved his hand. "I don't know what will be then. I shall see!"

"We shall see!" assented Yozhov.

He was given to drink, this little man who was scalded by life. His day began thus: in the morning at his tea he looked over the local newspapers and drew from the news notices material for his feuilleton, which he wrote right then and there on the corner of the table. Then he ran to the editorial office, where he made up "Provincial Pictures" out of clippings from country newspapers. On Friday he had to write his Sunday feuilleton. For all they paid him a hundred and twenty-five roubles a month; he worked fast, and devoted all his leisure time to the "survey and study of charitable institutions." Together with Foma he strolled about the clubs, hotels and taverns till late at night, drawing material everywhere for his articles, which he called "brushes for the cleansing of the conscience of society." The censor he styled as "superintendent of the diffusion of truth and righteousness in life," the newspaper he called "the go-between, engaged in introducing the reader to dangerous ideas," and his own work, "the sale of a soul in retail," and "an inclination to audacity against holy institutions."

Foma could hardly make out when Yozhov jested and when he was in earnest. He spoke of everything enthusiastically and passionately, he condemned everything harshly, and Foma liked it. But often, beginning to argue enthusiastically, he refuted and contradicted himself with equal enthusiasm or wound up his speech with some ridiculous turn. Then it appeared to Foma that that man loved nothing, that nothing was firmly rooted within him, that nothing guided him. Only when speaking of himself he talked in a rather peculiar voice, and the more impassioned he was in speaking of himself, the more merciless and enraged was he in reviling everything and everybody. And his relation toward Foma was dual; sometimes he gave him courage and spoke to him hotly, quivering in every limb.

"Go ahead! Refute and overthrow everything you can! Push forward with all your might. There is nothing more valuable than man, know this! Cry at the top of your voice: 'Freedom! Freedom!"

But when Foma, warmed up by the glowing sparks of these words, began to dream of how he should start to refute and overthrow people who, for the sake of personal profit, do not want to broaden life, Yozhov would often cut him short:

"Drop it! You cannot do anything! People like you are not needed. Your time, the time of the strong but not clever, is past, my dear! You are too late! There is no place for you in life."

"No? You are lying!" cried Foma, irritated by contradiction.

"Well, what can you accomplish?"

"I?"

"You!"

"Why, I can kill you!" said Foma, angrily, clenching his fist.

"Eh, you scarecrow!" said Yozhov, convincingly and pitifully, with a shrug of the shoulder. "Is there anything in that? Why, I am anyway half dead already from my wounds."

And suddenly inflamed with melancholy malice, he stretched himself and said:

"My fate has wronged me. Why have I lowered myself, accepting the sops of the public? Why have I worked like a machine for twelve years in succession in order to study? Why have I swallowed for twelve long years in the Gymnasium and the University the dry and tedious trash and the contradictory nonsense which is absolutely useless to me? In order to become feuilleton-writer, to play the clown from day to day, entertaining the public and convincing myself that that is necessary and useful to them. Where is the powder of my youth? I have fired off all the charge of my soul at three copecks a shot. What faith have I acquired for myself? Only faith in the fact that everything in this life is worthless, that everything must be broken, destroyed. What do I love? Myself. And I feel that the object of my love does not deserve my love. What can I accomplish?"

He almost wept, and kept on scratching his breast and his neck with his thin, feeble hands.

But sometimes he was seized with a flow of courage, and then he spoke in a different spirit:

"I? Oh, no, my song is not yet sung to the end! My breast has imbibed something, and I'll hiss like a whip! Wait, I'll drop the newspaper, I'll start to do serious work, and write one small book, which I will entitle 'The Passing of the Soul'; there is a prayer by that name, it is read for the dying. And before its death this society, cursed by the anathema of inward impotence, will receive my book like incense."

Listening to each and every word of his, watching him and comparing his remarks, Foma saw that Yozhov was just as weak as he was, that he, too, had lost his way. But Yozhov's mood still infected Foma, his speeches enriched Foma's vocabulary, and sometimes he noticed with joyous delight how cleverly and forcibly he had himself expressed this or that idea. He often met in Yozhov's house certain peculiar people, who, it seemed to him, knew everything, understood everything, contradicted everything, and saw deceit and falsehood in everything. He watched them in silence, listened to their words; their audacity pleased him, but he was embarrassed and repelled by their condescending and haughty bearing toward him. And then he clearly saw that in Yozhov's room they were all cleverer and better than they were in the street and in the hotels. They held peculiar conversations, words and gestures for use in the room, and all this was changed outside the room, into the most commonplace and human. Sometimes, in the room, they all blazed up like a huge woodpile, and Yozhov was the brightest firebrand among them; but the light of this bonfire illuminated but faintly the obscurity of Foma Gordyeeff's soul.

One day Yozhov said to him:

"Today we will carouse! Our compositors have formed a union, and they are going to take all the work from the publisher on a contract. There will be some drinking on this account, and I am invited. It was I who advised them to do it. Let us go? You will give them a good treat."

"Very well!" said Foma, to whom it was immaterial with whom he passed the time, which was a burden to him.

In the evening of that day Foma and Yozhov sat in the company of rough-faced people, on the outskirts of a grove, outside the town. There were twelve compositors there, neatly dressed; they treated Yozhov simply, as a comrade, and this somewhat surprised and embarrassed Foma, in whose eyes Yozhov was after all something of a master or superior to them, while they were really only his servants. They did not seem to notice Gordyeeff, although, when Yozhov introduced Foma to them, they shook hands with him and said that they were glad to see him. He lay down under a hazel-bush, and watched them all, feeling himself a stranger in this company, and noticing that even Yozhov seemed to have got away from him deliberately, and was paying but little attention to him. He perceived something strange about Yozhov; the little feuilleton-writer seemed to imitate the tone and the speech of the compositors. He bustled about with them at the woodpile, uncorked bottles of beer, cursed, laughed loudly and tried his best to resemble them. He was even dressed more simply than usual.

"Eh, brethren!" he exclaimed, with enthusiasm. "I feel well with you! I'm not a big bird, either. I am only the son of the courthouse guard, and noncommissioned officer, Matvey Yozhov!"

"Why does he say that?" thought Foma. "What difference does it make whose son a man is? A man is not respected on account of his father, but for his brains."

The sun was setting like a huge bonfire in the sky, tinting the clouds with hues of gold and of blood. Dampness and silence were breathed from the forest, while at its outskirts dark human figures bustled about noisily. One of them, short and lean, in a broad-brimmed straw hat, played the accordion; another one, with dark moustache and with his cap on the back of his head, sang an accompaniment softly. Two others tugged at a stick, testing their strength. Several busied themselves with the basket containing beer and provisions; a tall man with a grayish beard threw branches on the fire, which was enveloped in thick, whitish smoke. The damp branches, falling on the fire, crackled and rustled plaintively, and the accordion teasingly played a lively tune, while the falsetto of the singer reinforced and completed its loud tones.

Apart from them all, on the brink of a small ravine, lay three young fellows, and before them stood Yozhov, who spoke in a ringing voice:

"You bear the sacred banner of labour. And I, like yourselves, am a private soldier in the same army. We all serve Her Majesty, the Press. And we must live in firm, solid friendship."

"That's true, Nikolay Matveyich!" some one's thick voice interrupted him. "And we want to ask you to use your influence with the publisher! Use your influence with him! Illness and drunkenness cannot be treated as one and the same thing. And, according to his system, it comes out thus; if one of us gets drunk he is fined to the amount of his day's earnings; if he takes sick the same is done. We ought to be permitted to present the doctor's certificate, in case of sickness, to make it certain; and he, to be just, ought to pay the substitute at least half the wages of the sick man. Otherwise, it is hard for us. What if three of us should suddenly be taken sick at once?"

"Yes; that is certainly reasonable," assented Yozhov. "But, my friends, the principle of cooperation—"

Foma ceased listening to the speech of his friend, for his attention was diverted by the conversation of others. Two men were talking; one was a tall consumptive, poorly dressed and angry-looking man; the other a fair-haired and fair-bearded young man.

"In my opinion," said the tall man sternly, and coughing, "it is foolish! How can men like us marry? There will be children. Do we have enough to support them? The wife must be clothed—and then you can't tell what sort of a woman you may strike."

"She's a fine girl," said the fair-haired man, softly. "Well, it's now that she is fine. A betrothed girl is one thing, a wife quite another. But that isn't the main point. You can try—perhaps she will really be good. But then you'll be short of means. You will kill yourself with work, and you will ruin her, too. Marriage is an impossible thing for us. Do you mean to say that we can support a family on such earnings? Here, you see, I have only been married four years, and my end is near. I have seen no joy—nothing but worry and care."

He began to cough, coughed for a long time, with a groan, and when he had ceased, he said to his comrade in a choking voice:

"Drop it, nothing will come of it!"

His interlocutor bent his head mournfully, while Foma thought:

"He speaks sensibly. It's evident he can reason well."

The lack of attention shown to Foma somewhat offended him and aroused in him at the same time a feeling of respect for these men with dark faces impregnated with lead-dust. Almost all of them were engaged in practical serious conversation, and their remarks were studded with certain peculiar words. None of them fawned upon him, none bothered him with love, with his back to the fire, and he saw before him a row of brightly illuminated, cheerful and simple faces. They were all excited from drinking, but were not yet intoxicated; they laughed, jested, tried to sing, drank, and ate cucumbers, white bread and sausages. All this had for Foma a particularly pleasant flavour; he grew bolder, seized by the general good feeling, and he longed to say something good to these people, to please them all in some way or other. Yozhov, sitting by his side, moved about on the ground, jostled him with his shoulder and, shaking his head, muttered something indistinctly.

"Brethren!" shouted the stout fellow. "Let's strike up the student song. Well, one, two!"

"Swift as the waves,"

Someone roared in his bass voice:

"Are the days of our life."

"Friends!" said Yozhov, rising to his feet, a glass in his hand. He staggered, and leaned his other hand against Foma's head. The started song was broken off, and all turned their heads toward him.

"Working men! Permit me to say a few words, words from the heart. I am happy in your company! I feel well in your midst. That is because you are men of toil, men whose right to happiness is not subject to doubt, although it is not recognised. In your ennobling midst, Oh honest people, the lonely man, who is poisoned by life, breathes so easily, so freely."

Yozhov's voice quivered and quaked, and his head began to shake. Foma felt that something warm trickled down on his hand, and he looked up at the wrinkled face of Yozhov, who went on speaking, trembling in every limb:

"I am not the only one. There are many like myself, intimidated by fate, broken and suffering. We are more unfortunate than you are, because we are weaker both in body and in soul, but we are stronger than you because we are armed with knowledge, which we have no opportunity to apply. We are gladly ready to come to you and resign ourselves to you and help you to live. There is nothing else for us to do! Without you we are without ground to stand on; without us, you are without light! Comrades! we were created by Fate itself to complete one another!"

"What does he beg of them?" thought Foma, listening to Yozhov's words with perplexity. And examining the faces of the compositors he saw that they also looked at the orator inquiringly, perplexedly, wearily.

"The future is yours, my friends!" said Yozhov, faintly, shaking his head mournfully as though feeling sorry for the future, and yielding to these people against his will the predominance over it. "The future belongs to the men of honest toil. You have a great task before you! You have to create a new culture, everything free, vital and bright! I, who am one of you in flesh and in spirit; who am the son of a soldier; I propose a toast to your future! Hurrah!"

Yozhov emptied his glass and sank heavily to the ground. The compositors unanimously took up his broken exclamation, and a powerful, thundering shout rolled through the air, causing the leaves on the trees to tremble.

"Let's start a song now," proposed the stout fellow again.

"Come on!" chimed in two or three voices. A noisy dispute ensued as to what to sing. Yozhov listened to the noise, and, turning his head from one side to another, scrutinized them all.

"Brethren," Yozhov suddenly cried again, "answer me. Say a few words in reply to my address of welcome."

Again—though not at once—all became silent, some looking at him with curiosity, others concealing a grin, still others with an expression of dissatisfaction plainly written on their faces. And he again rose from the ground and said, hotly:

"Two of us here are cast away by life—I and that other one. We both desire the same regard for man and the happiness of feeling ourselves useful unto others. Comrades! And that big, stupid man—"

"Nikolay Matveyich, you had better not insult our guest!" said someone in a deep, displeased voice.

"Yes, that's unnecessary," affirmed the stout fellow, who had invited Foma to the fireside. "Why use offensive language?"

A third voice rang out loudly and distinctly:

"We have come together to enjoy ourselves—to take a rest."

"Fools!" laughed Yozhov, faintly. "Kind-hearted fools! Do you pity him? But do you know who he is? He is of those people who suck your blood."

"That will do, Nikolay Matveyich!" they cried to Yozhov. And all began to talk, paying no further attention to him. Foma felt so sorry for his friend that he did not even take offence. He saw that these people who defended him from Yozhov's attacks were now purposely ignoring the feuilleton-writer, and he understood that this would pain Yozhov if he were to notice it. And in order to take his friend away from possible unpleasantness, he nudged him in the side and said, with a kind-hearted laugh:

"Well, you grumbler, shall we have a drink? Or is it time to go home?"

"Home? Where is the home of the man who has no place among men?" asked Yozhov, and shouted again: "Comrades!"

Unanswered, his shout was drowned in the general murmur. Then he drooped his head and said to Foma:

"Let's go from here."

"Let's go. Though I don't mind sitting a little longer. It's interesting. They behave so nobly, the devils. By God!"

"I can't bear it any longer. I feel cold. I am suffocating."

"Well, come then."

Foma rose to his feet, removed his cap, and, bowing to the compositors, said loudly and cheerfully:

"Thank you, gentlemen, for your hospitality! Good-bye!"

They immediately surrounded him and spoke to him persuasively:

"Stay here! Where are you going? We might sing all together, eh?"

"No, I must go, it would be disagreeable to my friend to go alone. I am going to escort him. I wish you a jolly feast!"

"Eh, you ought to wait a little!" exclaimed the stout fellow, and then whispered:

"Some one will escort him home!"

The consumptive also remarked in a low voice:

"You stay here. We'll escort him to town, and get him into a cab and—there you are!"

Foma felt like staying there, and at the same time was afraid of something. While Yozhov rose to his feet, and, clutching at the sleeves of his overcoat, muttered:

"Come, the devil take them!"

"Till we meet again, gentlemen! I'm going!" said Foma and departed amid exclamations of polite regret.

"Ha, ha, ha!" Yozhov burst out laughing when he had got about twenty steps away from the fire. "They see us off with sorrow, but they are glad that I am going away. I hindered them from turning into beasts."

"It's true, you did disturb them," said Foma. "Why do you make such speeches? People have come out to enjoy themselves, and you obtrude yourself upon them. That bores them!"

"Keep quiet! You don't understand anything!" cried Yozhov, harshly. "You think I am drunk? It's my body that is intoxicated, but my soul is sober, it is always sober; it feels everything. Oh, how much meanness there is in the world, how much stupidity and wretchedness! And men—these stupid, miserable men."

Yozhov paused, and, clasping his head with his hands, stood for awhile, staggering.

"Yes!" drawled out Foma. "They are very much unlike one another. Now these men, how polite they are, like gentlemen. And they reason correctly, too, and all that sort of thing. They have common sense. Yet they are only labourers."

In the darkness behind them the men struck up a powerful choral song. Inharmonious at first, it swelled and grew until it rolled in a huge, powerful wave through the invigorating nocturnal air, above the deserted field.

"My God!" said Yozhov, sadly and softly, heaving a sigh. "Whereby are we to live? Whereon fasten our soul? Who shall quench its thirsts for friendship brotherhood, love, for pure and sacred toil?"

"These simple people," said Foma, slowly and pensively, without listening to his companion s words, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, "if one looks into these people, they're not so bad! It's even very—it is interesting. Peasants, labourers, to look at them plainly, they are just like horses. They carry burdens, they puff and blow."

"They carry our life on their backs," exclaimed Yozhov with irritation. "They carry it like horses, submissively, stupidly. And this submissiveness of theirs is our misfortune, our curse!"

And Foma, carried away by his own thought, argued:

"They carry burdens, they toil all their life long for mere trifles. And suddenly they say something that wouldn't come into your mind in a century. Evidently they feel. Yes, it is interesting to be with them."

Staggering, Yozhov walked in silence for a long time, and suddenly he waved his hand in the air and began to declaim in a dull, choking voice, which sounded as though it issued from his stomach:

"Life has cruelly deceived me, I have suffered so much pain."

"These, dear boy, are my own verses," said he, stopping short and nodding his head mournfully. "How do they run? I've forgotten. There is something there about dreams, about sacred and pure longings, which are smothered within my breast by the vapour of life. Oh!"

"The buried dreams within my breast Will never rise again."

"Brother! You are happier than I, because you are stupid. While I—"

"Don't be rude!" said Foma, irritated. "You would better listen how they are singing."

"I don't want to listen to other people's songs," said Yozhov, with a shake of the head. "I have my own, it is the song of a soul rent in pieces by life."

And he began to wail in a wild voice:

"The buried dreams within my breast Will never rise again... How great their number is!"

"There was a whole flower garden of bright, living dreams and hopes. They perished, withered and perished. Death is within my heart. The corpses of my dreams are rotting there. Oh! oh!"

Yozhov burst into tears, sobbing like a woman. Foma pitied him, and felt uncomfortable with him. He jerked at his shoulder impatiently, and said:

"Stop crying! Come, how weak you are, brother!" Clasping his head in his hand Yozhov straightened up his stooping frame, made an effort and started again mournfully and wildly:

"How great their number is! Their sepulchre how narrow! I clothed them all in shrouds of rhyme And many sad and solemn songs O'er them I sang from time to time!"

"Oh, Lord!" sighed Foma in despair. "Stop that, for Christ's sake! By God, how sad!"

In the distance the loud choral song was rolling through the darkness and the silence. Some one was whistling, keeping time to the refrain, and this shrill sound, which pierced the ear, ran ahead of the billow of powerful voices. Foma looked in that direction and saw the tall, black wall of forest, the bright fiery spot of the bonfire shining upon it, and the misty figures surrounding the fire. The wall of forest was like a breast, and the fire like a bloody wound in it. It seemed as though the breast was trembling, as the blood coursed down in burning streams. Embraced in dense gloom from all sides the people seemed on the background of the forest, like little children; they, too, seemed to burn, illuminated by the blaze of the bonfire. They waved their hands and sang their songs loudly, powerfully.

And Yozhov, standing beside Foma, spoke excitedly:

"You hard-hearted blockhead! Why do you repulse me? You ought to listen to the song of the dying soul, and weep over it, for, why was it wounded, why is it dying? Begone from me, begone! You think I am drunk? I am poisoned, begone!"

Without lifting his eyes off the forest and the fire, so beautiful in the darkness, Foma made a few steps aside from Yozhov and said to him in a low voice:

"Don't play the fool. Why do you abuse me at random?"

"I want to remain alone, and finish singing my song."

Staggering, he, too, moved aside from Foma, and after a few seconds again exclaimed in a sobbing voice:

"My song is done! And nevermore Shall I disturb their sleep of death, Oh Lord, Oh Lord, repose my soul! For it is hopeless in its wounds, Oh Lord, repose my soul."

Foma shuddered at the sounds of their gloomy wailing, and he hurried after Yozhov; but before he overtook him the little feuilleton-writer uttered a hysterical shriek, threw himself chest down upon the ground and burst out sobbing plaintively and softly, even as sickly children cry.

"Nikolay!" said Foma, lifting him by the shoulders. "Cease crying; what's the matter? Oh Lord. Nikolay! Enough, aren't you ashamed?"

But Yozhov was not ashamed; he struggled on the ground, like a fish just taken from the water, and when Foma had lifted him to his feet, he pressed close to Foma's breast, clasping his sides with his thin arms, and kept on sobbing.

"Well, that's enough!" said Foma, with his teeth tightly clenched. "Enough, dear."

And agitated by the suffering of the man who was wounded by the narrowness of life, filled with wrath on his account, he turned his face toward the gloom where the lights of the town were glimmering, and, in an outburst of wrathful grief, roared in a deep, loud voice:

"A-a-ana-thema! Be cursed! Just wait. You, too, shall choke! Be cursed!"



CHAPTER XI

"LUBAVKA!" said Mayakin one day when he came home from the Exchange, "prepare yourself for this evening. I am going to bring you a bridegroom! Prepare a nice hearty little lunch for us. Put out on the table as much of our old silverware as possible, also bring out the fruit-vases, so that he is impressed by our table! Let him see that each and everything we have is a rarity!"

Lubov was sitting by the window darning her father's socks, and her head was bent low over her work.

"What is all this for, papa?" she asked, dissatisfied and offended.

"Why, for sauce, for flavour. And then, it's in due order. For a girl is not a horse; you can't dispose of her without the harness."

All aflush with offence, Lubov tossed her head nervously, and flinging her work aside, cast a glance at her father; and, taking up the socks again, she bent her head still lower over them. The old man paced the room to and fro, plucking at his fiery beard with anxiety; his eyes stared somewhere into the distance, and it was evident that he was all absorbed in some great complicated thought. The girl understood that he would not listen to her and would not care to comprehend how degrading his words were for her. Her romantic dreams of a husband-friend, an educated man, who would read with her wise books and help her to find herself in her confused desires, these dreams were stifled by her father's inflexible resolution to marry her to Smolin. They had been killed and had become decomposed, settling down as a bitter sediment in her soul. She had been accustomed to looking upon herself as better and higher than the average girl of the merchant class, than the empty and stupid girl who thinks of nothing but dresses, and who marries almost always according to the calculation of her parents, and but seldom in accordance with the free will of her heart. And now she herself is about to marry merely because it was time, and also because her father needed a son-in-law to succeed him in his business. And her father evidently thought that she, by herself, was hardly capable of attracting the attention of a man, and therefore adorned her with silver. Agitated, she worked nervously, pricked her fingers, broke needles, but maintained silence, being aware that whatever she should say would not reach her father's heart.

And the old man kept on pacing the room to and fro, now humming psalms softly, now impressively instructing his daughter how to behave with the bridegroom. And then he also counted something on his fingers, frowned and smiled.

"Mm! So! Try me, Oh Lord, and judge me. From the unjust and the false man, deliver me. Yes! Put on your mother's emeralds, Lubov."

"Enough, papa!" exclaimed the girl, sadly. "Pray, leave that alone."

"Don't you kick! Listen to what I'm telling you."

And he was again absorbed in his calculations, snapping his green eyes and playing with his fingers in front of his face.

"That makes thirty-five percent. Mm! The fellow's a rogue. Send down thy light and thy truth."

"Papa!" exclaimed Lubov, mournfully and with fright.

"What?"

"You—are you pleased with him?"

"With whom?

"Smolin."

"Smolin? Yes, he's a rogue, he's a clever fellow, a splendid merchant! Well, I'm off now. So be on your guard, arm yourself."

When Lubov remained alone she flung her work aside and leaned against the back of her chair, closing her eyes tightly. Her hands firmly clasped together lay on her knees, and their fingers twitched. Filled with the bitterness of offended vanity, she felt an alarming fear of the future, and prayed in silence:

"My God! Oh Lord! If he were only a kind man! Make him kind, sincere. Oh Lord! A strange man comes, examines you, and takes you unto himself for years, if you please him! How disgraceful that is, how terrible. Oh Lord, my God! If I could only run away! If I only had someone to advise me what to do! Who is he? How can I learn to know him? I cannot do anything! And I have thought, ah, how much I have thought! I have read. To what purpose have I read? Why should I know that it is possible to live otherwise, so as I cannot live? And it may be that were it not for the books my life would be easier, simpler. How painful all this is! What a wretched, unfortunate being I am! Alone. If Taras at least were here."

At the recollection of her brother she felt still more grieved, still more sorry for herself. She had written to Taras a long, exultant letter, in which she had spoken of her love for him, of her hope in him; imploring her brother to come as soon as possible to see his father, she had pictured to him plans of arranging to live together, assuring Taras that their father was extremely clever and understood everything; she told about his loneliness, had gone into ecstasy over his aptitude for life and had, at the same time, complained of his attitude toward her.

For two weeks she impatiently expected a reply, and when she had received and read it she burst out sobbing for joy and disenchantment. The answer was dry and short; in it Taras said that within a month he would be on the Volga on business and would not fail to call on his father, if the old man really had no objection to it. The letter was cold, like a block of ice; with tears in her eyes she perused it over and over again, rumpled it, creased it, but it did not turn warmer on this account, it only became wet. From the sheet of stiff note paper which was covered with writing in a large, firm hand, a wrinkled and suspiciously frowning face, thin and angular like that of her father, seemed to look at her.

On Yakov Tarasovich the letter of his son made a different impression. On learning the contents of Taras's reply the old man started and hastily turned to his daughter with animation and with a peculiar smile:

"Well, let me see it! Show it to me! He-he! Let's read how wise men write. Where are my spectacles? Mm! 'Dear sister!' Yes."

The old man became silent; he read to himself the message of his son, put it on the table, and, raising his eyebrows, silently paced the room to and fro, with an expression of amazement on his countenance. Then he read the letter once more, thoughtfully tapped the table with his fingers and spoke:

"That letter isn't bad—it is sound, without any unnecessary words. Well? Perhaps the man has really grown hardened in the cold. The cold is severe there. Let him come, we'll take a look at him. It's interesting. Yes. In the psalm of David concerning the mysteries of his son it is said: 'When Thou hast returned my enemy'—I've forgotten how it reads further. 'My enemy's weapons have weakened in the end, and his memory hath perished amid noise. Well, we'll talk it over with him without noise."

The old man tried to speak calmly and with a contemptuous smile, but the smile did not come; his wrinkles quivered irritably, and his small eyes had a particularly clear brilliancy.

"Write to him again, Lubovka. 'Come along!' write him, 'don't be afraid to come!'"

Lubov wrote Taras another letter, but this time it was shorter and more reserved, and now she awaited a reply from day to day, attempting to picture to herself what sort of man he must be, this mysterious brother of hers. Before she used to think of him with sinking heart, with that solemn respect with which believers think of martyrs, men of upright life; now she feared him, for he had acquired the right to be judge over men and life at the price of painful sufferings, at the cost of his youth, which was ruined in exile. On coming, he would ask her:

"You are marrying of your own free will, for love, are you not?"

What should she tell him? Would he forgive her faint-heartedness? And why does she marry? Can it really be possible that this is all she can do in order to change her life?

Gloomy thoughts sprang up one after another in the head of the girl and confused and tortured her, impotent as she was to set up against them some definite, all-conquering desire. Though she was in an anxious and compressing her lips. Smolin rose from his chair, made a step toward her and bowed respectfully. She was rather pleased with this low and polite bow, also with the costly frock coat, which fitted Smolin's supple figure splendidly. He had changed but slightly—he was the same red-headed, closely-cropped, freckled youth; only his moustache had become long, and his eyes seemed to have grown larger.

"Now he's changed, eh?" exclaimed Mayakin to his daughter, pointing at the bridegroom. And Smolin shook hands with her, and smiling, said in a ringing baritone voice:

"I venture to hope that you have not forgotten your old friend?"

"It's all right! You can talk of this later," said the old man, scanning his daughter with his eyes.

"Lubova, you can make your arrangements here, while we finish our little conversation. Well then, African Mitrich, explain yourself."

"You will pardon me, Lubov Yakovlevna, won't you?" asked Smolin, gently.

"Pray do not stand upon ceremony," said Lubov. "He's polite and clever," she remarked to herself; and, as she walked about in the room from the table to the sideboard, she began to listen attentively to Smolin's words. He spoke softly, confidently, with a simplicity, in which was felt condescendence toward the interlocutor. "Well then, for four years I have carefully studied the condition of Russian leather in foreign markets. It's a sad and horrid condition! About thirty years ago our leather was considered there as the standard, while now the demand for it is constantly falling off, and, of course, the price goes hand in hand with it. And that is perfectly natural. Lacking the capital and knowledge all these small leather producers are not able to raise their product to the proper standard, and, at the same time, to reduce the price. Their goods are extremely bad and dear. And they are all to blame for having spoiled Russia's reputation as manufacturer of the best leather. In general, the petty producer, lacking the technical knowledge and capital, is consequently placed in a position where he is unable to improve his products in proportion to the development of the technical side. Such a producer is a misfortune for the country, the parasite of her commerce."

"Hm!" bellowed the old man, looking at his guest with one eye, and watching his daughter with the other. "So that now your intention is to build such a great factory that all the others will go to the dogs?"

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Smolin, warding off the old man's words with an easy wave of the hand. "Why wrong others? What right have I to do so? My aim is to raise the importance and price of Russian leather abroad, and so equipped with the knowledge as to the manufacture, I am building a model factory, and fill the markets with model goods. The commercial honour of the country!"

"Does it require much capital, did you say?" asked Mayakin, thoughtfully.

"About three hundred thousand."

"Father won't give me such a dowry," thought Lubov.

"My factory will also turn out leather goods, such as trunks, foot-wear, harnesses, straps and so forth."

"And of what per cent, are you dreaming?"

"I am not dreaming, I am calculating with all the exactness possible under conditions in Russia," said Smolin, impressively. "The manufacturer should be as strictly practical as the mechanic who is creating a machine. The friction of the tiniest screw must be taken into consideration, if you wish to do a serious thing seriously. I can let you read a little note which I have drawn up, based upon my personal study of cattle-breeding and of the consumption of meat in Russia."

"How's that!" laughed Mayakin. "Bring me that note, it's interesting! It seems you did not spend your time for nothing in Western Europe. And now, let's eat something, after the Russian fashion."

"How are you passing the time, Lubov Yakovlevna?" asked Smolin, arming himself with knife and fork.

"She is rather lonesome here with me," replied Mayakin for his daughter. "My housekeeper, all the household is on her shoulders, so she has no time to amuse herself."

"And no place, I must add," said Lubov. "I am not fond of the balls and entertainments given by the merchants."

"And the theatre?" asked Smolin.

"I seldom go there. I have no one to go with."

"The theatre!" exclaimed the old man. "Tell me, pray, why has it become the fashion then to represent the merchant as a savage idiot? It is very amusing, but it is incomprehensible, because it is false! Am I a fool, if I am master in the City Council, master in commerce, and also owner of that same theatre? You look at the merchant on the stage and you see—he isn't life-life! Of course, when they present something historical, such as: 'Life for the Czar,' with song and dance, or 'Hamlet,' 'The Sorceress,' or 'Vasilisa,' truthful reproduction is not required, because they're matters of the past and don't concern us. Whether true or not, it matters little so long as they're good, but when you represent modern times, then don't lie! And show the man as he really is."

Smolin listened to the old man's words with a covetous smile on his lips, and cast at Lubov glances which seemed to invite her to refute her father. Somewhat embarrassed, she said:

"And yet, papa, the majority of the merchant class is uneducated and savage."

"Yes," remarked Smolin with regret, nodding his head affirmatively, "that is the sad truth."

"Take Foma, for instance," went on the girl.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mayakin. "Well, you are young folks, you can have books in your hands."

"And do you not take interest in any of the societies?" Smolin asked Lubov. "You have so many different societies here."

"Yes," said Lubov with a sigh, "but I live rather apart from everything."

"Housekeeping!" interposed the father. "We have here such a store of different things, everything has to be kept clean, in order, and complete as to number."

With a self-satisfied air he nodded first at the table, which was set with brilliant crystal and silverware, and then at the sideboard, whose shelves were fairly breaking under the weight of the articles, and which reminded one of the display in a store window. Smolin noted all these and an ironical smile began to play upon his lips. Then he glanced at Lubov's face: in his look she caught something friendly, sympathetic to her. A faint flush covered her cheeks, and she said to herself with timid joy:

"Thank God!"

The light of the heavy bronze lamp now seemed to flash more brilliantly on the sides of the crystal vases, and it became brighter in the room.

"I like our dear old town!" said Smolin, looking at the girl with a kindly smile, "it is so beautiful, so vigorous; there is cheerfulness about it that inspires one to work. Its very picturesqueness is somewhat stimulating. In it one feels like leading a dashing life. One feels like working much and seriously. And then, it is an intelligent town. Just see what a practical newspaper is published here. By the way, we intend to purchase it."

"Whom do you mean by You?" asked Mayakin.

"I, Urvantzov, Shchukin—"

"That's praiseworthy!" said the old man, rapping the table with his hand. "That's very practical! It is time to stop their mouths, it was high time long ago! Particularly that Yozhov; he's like a sharp-toothed saw. Just put the thumb-screw on him! And do it well!"

Smolin again cast at Lubov a smiling glance, and her heart trembled with joy once more. With flushing face she said to her father, inwardly addressing herself to the bridegroom:

"As far as I can understand, African Dmitreivich, he wishes to buy the newspaper not at all for the sake of stopping its mouth as you say."

"What then can be done with it?" asked the old man, shrugging his shoulders. "There's nothing in it but empty talk and agitation. Of course, if the practical people, the merchants themselves, take to writing for it—"

"The publication of a newspaper," began Smolin, instructively, interrupting the old man, "looked at merely from the commercial point of view, may be a very profitable enterprise. But aside from this, a newspaper has another more important aim—that is, to protect the right of the individual and the interests of industry and commerce."

"That's just what I say, if the merchant himself will manage the newspaper, then it will be useful."

"Excuse me, papa," said Lubov.

She began to feel the need of expressing herself before Smolin; she wanted to assure him that she understood the meaning of his words, that she was not an ordinary merchant-daughter, interested in dresses and balls only. Smolin pleased her. This was the first time she had seen a merchant who had lived abroad for a long time, who reasoned so impressively, who bore himself so properly, who was so well dressed, and who spoke to her father, the cleverest man in town, with the condescending tone of an adult towards a minor.

"After the wedding I'll persuade him to take me abroad," thought Lubov, suddenly, and, confused at this thought she forgot what she was about to say to her father. Blushing deeply, she was silent for a few seconds, seized with fear lest Smolin might interpret this silence in a way unflattering to her.

"On account of your conversation, you have forgotten to offer some wine to our guest," she said at last, after a few seconds of painful silence.

"That's your business. You are hostess," retorted the old man.

"Oh, don't disturb yourself!" exclaimed Smolin, with animation. "I hardly drink at all."

"Really?" asked Mayakin.

"I assure you! Sometimes I drink a wine glass or two in case of fatigue or illness. But to drink wine for pleasure's sake is incomprehensible to me. There are other pleasures more worthy of a man of culture."

"You mean ladies, I suppose?" asked the old man with a wink.

Smolin's cheeks and neck became red with the colour which leaped to his face. With apologetic eyes he glanced at Lubov, and said to her father drily:

"I mean the theatre, books, music."

Lubov became radiant with joy at his words.

The old man looked askance at the worthy young man, smiled keenly and suddenly blurted out:

"Eh, life is going onward! Formerly the dog used to relish a crust, now the pug dog finds the cream too thin; pardon me for my sour remark, but it is very much to the point. It does not exactly refer to yourself, but in general."

Lubov turned pale and looked at Smolin with fright. He was calm, scrutinising an ancient salt box, decorated with enamel; he twisted his moustache and looked as though he had not heard the old man's words. But his eyes grew darker, and his lips were compressed very tightly, and his clean-shaven chin obstinately projected forward.

"And so, my future leading manufacturer," said Mayakin, as though nothing had happened, "three hundred thousand roubles, and your business will flash up like a fire?"

"And within a year and a half I shall send out the first lot of goods, which will be eagerly sought for," said Smolin, simply, with unshakable confidence, and he eyed the old man with a cold and firm look.

"So be it; the firm of Smolin and Mayakin, and that's all? So. Only it seems rather late for me to start a new business, doesn't it? I presume the grave has long been prepared for me; what do you think of it?"

Instead of an answer Smolin burst into a rich, but indifferent and cold laughter, and then said:

"Oh, don't say that."

The old man shuddered at his laughter, and started back with fright, with a scarcely perceptible movement of his body. After Smolin's words all three maintained silence for about a minute.

"Yes," said Mayakin, without lifting his head, which was bent low. "It is necessary to think of that. I must think of it." Then, raising his head, he closely scrutinised his daughter and the bridegroom, and, rising from his chair, he said sternly and brusquely: "I am going away for awhile to my little cabinet. You surely won't feel lonesome without me."

And he went out with bent back and drooping head, heavily scraping with his feet.

The young people, thus left alone, exchanged a few empty phrases, and, evidently conscious that these only helped to remove them further from each other, they maintained a painful, awkward and expectant silence. Taking an orange, Lubov began to peel it with exaggerated attention, while Smolin, lowering his eyes, examined his moustaches, which he carefully stroked with his left hand, toyed with a knife and suddenly asked the girl in a lowered voice:

"Pardon me for my indiscretion. It is evidently really difficult for you, Lubov Yakovlevna, to live with your father. He's a man with old-fashioned views and, pardon me, he's rather hard-hearted!"

Lubov shuddered, and, casting at the red-headed man a grateful look, said:

"It isn't easy, but I have grown accustomed to it. He also has his good qualities."

"Oh, undoubtedly! But to you who are so young, beautiful and educated, to you with your views... You see, I have heard something about you."

He smiled so kindly and sympathetically, and his voice was so soft, a breath of soul-cheering warmth filled the room. And in the heart of the girl there blazed up more and more brightly the timid hope of finding happiness, of being freed from the close captivity of solitude.



CHAPTER XII

A DENSE, grayish fog lay over the river, and a steamer, now and then uttering a dull whistle, was slowly forging up against the current. Damp and cold clouds, of a monotone pallor, enveloped the steamer from all sides and drowned all sounds, dissolving them in their troubled dampness. The brazen roaring of the signals came out in a muffled, melancholy drone, and was oddly brief as it burst forth from the whistle. The sound seemed to find no place for itself in the air, which was soaked with heavy dampness, and fell downward, wet and choked. And the splashing of the steamer's wheels sounded so fantastically dull that it seemed as though it were not begotten near by, at the sides of the vessel, but somewhere in the depth, on the dark bottom of the river. From the steamer one could see neither the water, nor the shore, nor the sky; a leaden-gray gloominess enwrapped it on all sides; devoid of shadings, painfully monotonous, the gloominess was motionless, it oppressed the steamer with immeasurable weight, slackened its movements and seemed as though preparing itself to swallow it even as it was swallowing the sounds. In spite of the dull blows of the paddles upon the water and the measured shaking of the body of the vessel, it seemed that the steamer was painfully struggling on one spot, suffocating in agony, hissing like a fairy tale monster breathing his last, howling in the pangs of death, howling with pain, and in the fear of death.

Lifeless were the steamer lights. About the lantern on the mast a yellow motionless spot had formed; devoid of lustre, it hung in the fog over the steamer, illuminating nothing save the gray mist. The red starboard light looked like a huge eye crushed out by some one's cruel fist, blinded, overflowing with blood. Pale rays of light fell from the steamer's windows into the fog, and only tinted its cold, cheerless dominion over the vessel, which was pressed on all sides by the motionless mass of stifling dampness.

The smoke from the funnel fell downwards, and, together with fragments of the fog, penetrated into all the cracks of the deck, where the third-class passengers were silently muffling themselves in their rags, and forming groups, like sheep. From near the machinery were wafted deep, strained groans, the jingling of bells, the dull sounds of orders and the abrupt words of the machinist: