However this failed to calm him as he had expected. His heart was sad, and a bitter soapy saliva seemed to be glued in his mouth, making tears well up in his eyes. "O Ga-a-a-arden, ga-a-a-arden mine! Green is this garden of mine." He sang with the full power of his lungs, shutting his eyes tight. This did not help either. The dry, prickly tears trickled through his lids, and chilled his cheeks. "Ky-a-b!" Klimkov called in a low voice, still trying to put on a bold front. But when he had seated himself in the sleigh, his body grew faint, as if a great many tightly drawn fibres had suddenly burst within him. His head drooped, and swaying from side to side in his seat he mumbled: "A fine insult--very strong--thank you! Oh, you good people, wise people--" This complaining was pleasant. It filled his heart with drunken sweetness. Yevsey had often felt this sweetness in his childhood. It set him in a martyr-like attitude toward people, and made him more significant to himself. CHAPTER XIX In the morning Yevsey lay in bed frowning up at the ceiling. "Put my foot into it!" he thought dismally, as the recollection of what had happened the day before came back to him. "No, I oughtn't to track people, but track myself." The idea seemed strange to him. "How's that, though? Am I rascally toward myself?" He remembered the melancholy hazel eyes of the joiner, the expression of dignity on his thin face, and his assured voice as he said, "It's chilly." Suddenly Yevsey was perplexed to feel within himself something alien, something ready to struggle with him. He rose to his feet, took in as much air as he could, and for a long time stood without emitting breath, as if to stifle inside himself that which was alien and which hindered him. "I must stop all this. What do I want it for?" he urged himself. Nevertheless ease did not return. He began to dress lazily, compelling himself to think about the task of the day. Now he seldom went about with goods, because there was much other work to be done. This day, for instance, he was to go to a factory suburb to observe the workingmen, with the object of discovering the persons who distributed proclamations. He smeared his hands with soot and oil, then washed them with soap, after which an oily film was left, such as on the hands of metal workers. This was not essential. But Klimkov liked to dye his tufty hair, and color his brows and mustache. Such proceedings made his work more interesting, and heightened its gravity.