The author began to twirl his mustache more slowly, but his look as before travelled beyond the confines of the room. All this disturbed Yevsey, breaking the thread of his recollections. He be-thought himself of closing his eyes. When he did so, and darkness closely enveloped him, he sighed lightly. Suddenly he beheld himself divided in two--the man who had lived, and the other being who was able to tell about the first as about a stranger. His speech flowed on more easily, his voice grew stronger, and the events of his life drew themselves connectedly one after the other, unrolling easily like a ball of grey thread. They freed the little feeble soul from the dirty and cumbersome rags of its experiences. It was pleasant to Yevsey to tell about himself. He listened to his own voice with quiet astonishment. He spoke truthfully, and clearly saw that he had not been guilty of anything, for he had lived all his days not as he had wanted to, but as he had been compelled to do; and he had been compelled to do what was unpleasant and unnecessary to him. Filled with a sense of sincere self-pity, he was almost ready to weep and to fall in love with himself. Whenever the author asked him a question, which Yevsey did not understand, he would say without opening his eyes, sternly and quietly: "Wait, I'm telling it in order." He spoke without wearying, but when he came to the moment of his meeting with Maklakov, he suddenly stopped as before a pit. He opened his eyes, and saw at the window the dull look of the autumn morning, the cold grey depth of the sky. Heaving a deep sigh, he straightened himself up. He felt washed within, unusually light, unpleasantly empty. His heart was ready submissively to receive new orders, fresh violence. The author rose noisily from his seat, tall and strong. He pressed his hands together, cracking his fingers disagreeably. "What do you think of doing now?" he asked, as he turned to the window without looking at Klimkov. Yevsey also rose, and repeated with assurance what he had told Maklakov. "As soon as the new life is arranged, I'll quietly go into some business--I'll go to another city--I've saved about one hundred and fifty rubles." The author turned to him slowly. "So?" he said. "You have no other desire whatsoever?" Klimkov thought, and answered: "No." "And you believe in the new life? You think it will arrange itself?" "Of course. How else? If all the people want it. Why won't it arrange itself?" "I'm not saying anything." Mironov keeping silent turned to the window again, and straightened out his mustache with both hands. Yevsey stood motionless, awaiting something and listening to the emptiness in his breast. "Tell me," said the writer softly and slowly, "aren't you sorry for those people, that girl, your cousin, and his comrade?" Klimkov bowed his head, and drew the skirts of his coat together. "You found out that they were right, didn't you?"