“What I wanted?” Foma raised his head, looked at the merchants and smiled. “I wanted--” “Drunkard! Nasty scamp!” “I am not drunk!” retorted Foma, morosely. “I have drank only two glasses. I was perfectly sober.” “Consequently,” said Bobrov, “you are right, Yakov Tarasovich, he is insane.” “I?” exclaimed Foma. But they paid no attention to him. Reznikov, Zubov and Bobrov leaned over to Mayakin and began to talk in low tones. “Guardianship!” Foma’s ears caught this one word. “I am in my right mind!” he said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the merchants with troubled eyes. “I understand what I wanted. I wanted to speak the truth. I wanted to accuse you.” He was again seized with emotion, and he suddenly jerked his hands in an effort to free them. “Eh! Hold on!” exclaimed Bobrov, seizing him by the shoulders. “Hold him.” “Well, hold me!” said Foma with sadness and bitterness. “Hold me--what do you need me for?” “Sit still!” cried his godfather, sternly. Foma became silent. He now understood that what he had done was of no avail, that his words had not staggered the merchants. Here they stood, surrounding him in a dense throng, and he could not see anything for them. They were calm, firm, treating him as a drunkard and a turbulent fellow, and were plotting something against him. He felt himself pitiful, insignificant, crushed by that dark mass of strong-souled, clever and sedate people. It seemed to him that a long time had passed since he had abused them, so long a time that he himself seemed as a stranger, incapable of comprehending what he had done to these people, and why he had done it. He even experienced in himself a certain feeling of offence, which resembled shame at himself in his own eyes. There was a tickling sensation in his throat, and he felt there was something foreign in his breast, as though some dust or ashes were strewn upon his heart, and it throbbed unevenly and with difficulty. Wishing to explain to himself his act, he said slowly and thoughtfully, without looking at anyone: “I wanted to speak the truth. Is this life?” “Fool!” said Mayakin, contemptuously. “What truth can you speak? What do you understand?” “My heart is wounded, that I understand! What justification have you all in the eyes of God? To what purpose do you live? Yes, I feel--I felt the truth!” “He is repenting!” said Reznikov, with a sarcastic smile. “Let him!” replied Bobrov, with contempt. Some one added: “It is evident, from his words, that he is out of his wits.” “To speak the truth, that’s not given to everyone!” said Yakov Tarasovich, sternly and instructively, lifting his hand upward. “It is not the heart that grasps truth; it is the mind; do you understand that? And as to your feeling, that’s nonsense! A cow also feels when they twist her tail. But you must understand, understand everything! Understand also your enemy. Guess what he thinks even in his dreams, and then go ahead!”