Now, recalling all this and a great deal more, he felt ashamed of himself and dissatisfied with Sasha. He looked at her well-shaped figure, heard her even breathing and felt that he did not love this woman, and that she was unnecessary to him. Certain gray, oppressive thoughts were slowly springing up in his heavy, aching head. It seemed to him as though everything he had lived through during this time was twisted within him into a heavy and moist ball, and that now this ball was rolling about in his breast, unwinding itself slowly, and the thin gray cords were binding him. “What is going on in me?” he thought. “I’ve begun to carouse. Why? I don’t know how to live. I don’t understand myself. Who am I?” He was astonished by this question, and he paused over it, attempting to make it clear to himself--why he was unable to live as firmly and confidently as other people do. He was now still more tortured. by conscience. More uneasy at this thought, he tossed about on the hay and irritated, pushed Sasha with his elbow. “Be careful!” said she, although nearly asleep. “It’s all right. You’re not such a lady of quality!” muttered Foma. “What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing.” She turned her back to him, and said lazily, with a lazy yawn: “I dreamed that I became a harpist again. It seemed to me that I was singing a solo, and opposite me stood a big, dirty dog, snarling and waiting for me to finish the song. And I was afraid of the dog. And I knew that it would devour me, as soon as I stopped singing. So I kept singing, singing. And suddenly it seemed my voice failed me. Horrible! And the dog is gnashing his teeth. Oh Lord, have mercy on me! What does it mean?” “Stop your idle talk!” Foma interrupted her sternly. “You better tell me what you know about me.” “I know, for instance, that you are awake now,” she answered, without turning to him. “Awake? That’s true. I’ve awakened,” said Foma, thoughtfully and, throwing his arm behind his head, went on: “That’s why I am asking you. What sort of man do you think I am?” “A man with a drunken headache,” answered Sasha, yawning. “Aleksandra!” exclaimed Foma, beseechingly, “don’t talk nonsense! Tell me conscientiously, what do you think of me?” “I don’t think anything!” she said drily. “Why are you bothering me with nonsense?” “Is this nonsense?” said Foma, sadly. “Eh, you devils! This is the principal thing. The most essential thing to me.” He heaved a deep sigh and became silent. After a minute’s silence, Sasha began to speak in her usual, indifferent voice: “Tell him who he is, and why he is such as he is? Did you ever see! Is it proper to ask such questions of our kind of women? And on what ground should I think about each and every man? I have not even time to think about myself, and, perhaps, I don’t feel like doing it at all.” Foma laughed drily and said: “I wish I were like this--and had no desires for anything.”