“I don’t know!” replied Foma, nodding his head mournfully. “Think of it--search.” “I am unable to think. Nothing comes out of my thinking.” “Eh, you, my child!” said Sasha, softly and disdainfully, moving away from him. “Your head is superfluous to you.” Foma neither caught her tone nor noticed her movement. Leaning his hands against the bench, he bent forward, looked at the floor, and, swaying his body to and fro, said: “Sometimes I think and think--and the whole soul is stuck round with thoughts as with tar. And suddenly everything disappears, without leaving any trace. Then it is dark in the soul as in a cellar--dark, damp and empty--there is nothing at all in it! It is even terrible--I feel then as though I were not a man, but a bottomless ravine. You ask me what I want?” Sasha looked at him askance and pensively began to sing softly: “Eh, when the wind blows--mist comes from the sea.” “I don’t want to carouse--it is repulsive! Always the same--the people, the amusements, the wine. When I grow malicious--I’d thrash everybody. I am not pleased with men--what are they? It is impossible to understand them--why do they keep on living? And when they speak the truth--to whom are we to listen? One says this, another that. While I--I cannot say anything.” “Eh, without thee, dear, my life is weary,” sang Sasha, staring at the wall before her. And Foma kept on rocking and said: “There are times when I feel guilty before men. Everybody lives, makes noise, while I am frightened, staggered--as if I did not feel the earth under me. Was it, perhaps, my mother that endowed me with apathy? My godfather says that she was as cold as ice--that she was forever yearning towards something. I am also yearning. Toward men I am yearning. I’d like to go to them and say: ‘Brethren, help me! Teach me! I know not how to live!. And if I am guilty--forgive me!’ But looking about, I see there’s no one to speak to. No one wants it--they are all rascals! And it seems they are even worse than I am. For I am, at least, ashamed of living as I am, while they are not! They go on.” Foma uttered some violent, unbecoming invectives and became silent. Sasha broke off her song and moved still farther away from him. The wind was raging outside the window, hurling dust against the window-panes. Cockroaches were rustling on the oven as they crawled over a bunch of pine wood splinters. Somewhere in the yard a calf was lowing pitifully. Sasha glanced at Foma, with a sarcastic smile, and said: “There’s another unfortunate creature lowing. You ought to go to him; perhaps you could sing in unison. And placing her hand on his curly head she jestingly pushed it on the side. “What are people like yourself good for? That’s what you ought to think of. What are you groaning about? You are disgusted with being idle--occupy yourself, then, with business.”