He came to himself from his broodings on the shore, at the landing-places, aroused by the bustle of toil. All sorts of articles and wares were carried and carted in every direction; people moved about hastily, care-worn, spurring on their horses excitedly, shouting at one another, filling the street with unintelligible bustle and deafening noise of hurried work. They busied themselves on a narrow strip of ground, paved with stone, built up on one side with tall houses, and the other side cut off by a steep ravine at the river, and their seething bustle made upon Foma an impression as though they had all prepared themselves to flee from this toil amid filth and narrowness and tumult--prepared themselves to flee and were now hastening to complete the sooner the unfinished work which would not release them. Huge steamers, standing by the shore and emitting columns of smoke from their funnels, were already awaiting them. The troubled water of the river, closely obstructed with vessels, was softly and plaintively splashing against the shore, as though imploring for a minute of rest and repose. “Your Honour!” a hoarse cry rang out near Foma’s ears, “contribute some brandy in honour of the building!” Foma glanced at the petitioner indifferently; he was a huge, bearded fellow, barefooted, with a torn shirt and a bruised, swollen face. “Get away!” muttered Foma, and turned away from him. “Merchant! When you die you can’t take your money with you. Give me for one glass of brandy, or are you too lazy to put your hand into your pocket?” Foma again looked at the petitioner; the latter stood before him, covered more with mud than with clothes, and, trembling with intoxication, waited obstinately, staring at Foma with blood-shot, swollen eyes. “Is that the way to ask?” inquired Foma. “How else? Would you want me to go down on my knees before you for a ten-copeck piece?” asked the bare-footed man, boldly. “There!” and Foma gave him a coin. “Thanks! Fifteen copecks. Thanks! And if you give me fifteen more I’ll crawl on all fours right up to that tavern. Do you want me to?” proposed the barefooted man. “Go, leave me alone!” said Foma, waving him off with his hand. “He who gives not when he may, when he fain would, shall have nay,” said the barefooted man, and stepped aside. Foma looked at him as he departed, and said to himself: “There is a ruined man and yet how bold he is. He asks alms as though demanding a debt. Where do such people get so much boldness?” And heaving a deep sigh, he answered himself: “From freedom. The man is not fettered. What is there that he should regret? What does he fear? And what do I fear? What is there that I should regret?” These two questions seemed to strike Foma’s heart and called forth in him a dull perplexity. He looked at the movement of the working people and kept on thinking: What did he regret? What did he fear?