Then the woman raised her head from the pillow, looked into Foma’s face and lay down again, saying: “You are musing too much. Look out--no good will come of it to you. I cannot tell you anything about yourself. It is impossible to say anything true about a man. Who can understand him? Man does not know himself. Well, here, I’ll tell you--you are better than others. But what of it?” “And in what way am I better?” asked Foma, thoughtfully. “So! When one sings a good song--you weep. When one does some mean thing--you beat him. With women you are simple, you are not impudent to them. You are peaceable. And you can also be daring, sometimes.” Yet all this did not satisfy Foma. “You’re not telling me the right thing!” said he, softly. “Well, I don’t know what you want. But see here, what are we going to do after they have raised the barge?” “What can we do?” asked Foma. “Shall we go to Nizhni or to Kazan?” “What for?” “To carouse.” “I don’t want to carouse any more.” “What else are you going to do?” “What? Nothing.” And both were silent for a long time, without looking at each other. “You have a disagreeable character,” said Sasha, “a wearisome character.” “But nevertheless I won’t get drunk any more!” said Foma, firmly and confidently. “You are lying!” retorted Sasha, calmly. “You’ll see! What do you think--is it good to lead such a life as this?” “I’ll see.” “No, just tell me--is it good?” “But what is better?” Foma looked at her askance and, irritated, said: “What repulsive words you speak.” “Well, here again I haven’t pleased him!” said Sasha, laughing. “What a fine crowd!” said Foma, painfully wrinkling his face. “They’re like trees. They also live, but how? No one understands. They are crawling somewhere. And can give no account either to themselves or to others. When the cockroach crawls, he knows whither and wherefore he wants to go? And you? Whither are you going?” “Hold on!” Sasha interrupted him, and asked him calmly: “What have you to do with me? You may take from me all that you want, but don’t you creep into my soul!” “Into your so-o-ul!” Foma drawled out, with contempt. “Into what soul? He, he!” She began to pace the room, gathering together the clothes that were scattered everywhere. Foma watched her and was displeased because she did not get angry at him for his words about her soul. Her face looked calm and indifferent, as usual, but he wished to see her angry or offended; he wished for something human from the woman. “The soul!” he exclaimed, persisting in his aim. “Can one who has a soul live as you live? A soul has fire burning in it, there is a sense of shame in it.” By this time she was sitting on a bench, putting on her stockings, but at his words she raised her head and sternly fixed her eyes upon his face. “What are you staring at?” asked Foma. “Why do you speak that way?” said she, without lifting her eyes from him. “Because I must.” “Look out--must you really?”