ybody, or lie in the
gutter."

The old man smiled, and the broken teeth in his mouth roused in Foma the
keen thought:

"You have bitten many, it seems."

"There's but one word--battle!" repeated the old man.

"Is this the real one?" asked Foma, looking at Mayakin searchingly.

"That is, what do you mean--the real?"

"Is there nothing better than this? Does this contain everything?"

"Where else should it be? Everybody lives for himself. Each of us wishes
the best for himself. And what is the best? To go in front of others, to
stand above them. So that everybody is trying to attain the first place
in life--one by this means, another by that means. But everyone is
positively anxious to be seen from afar, like a tower. And man was
indeed appointed to go upward. Even the Book of Job says: 'Man is born
unto trouble, as the sparks, to fly upward.' Just see: even children at
play always wish to surpass one another. And each and every game has its
climax, which makes it interesting. Do you understand?"

"I understand this!" said Foma, firmly and confidently.

"But you must also feel this. With understanding alone you cannot go
far, and you must desire, and desire so that a big mountain should seem
to you but a hillock, and the sea but a puddle. Eh! When I was of your
age I had an easy life, while you are only taking aim. But then, good
fruit does not ripen early."

The old man's monotonous speeches soon accomplished what they were
intended to do. Foma listened to them and made clear to himself the aim
of life. He must be better than others, he resolved, and the ambition,
kindled by the old man, took deep root in his heart. It took root
within his heart, but did not fill it up, for Foma's relations toward
Medinskaya assumed that character, which they were bound to assume. He
longed for her, he always yearned to see her; while in her presence
he became timid, awkward and stupid; he knew it and suffered on this
account. He frequently visited her, but it was hard to find her at home
alone; perfumed dandies like flies over a piece of sugar--were always
flitting about her. They spoke to her in French, sang and laughed, while
he looked at them in silence, tortured by anger and jealousy. His
legs crossed, he sat somewhere in a corner of her richly furnished
drawing-room, where it was extremely difficult to walk without
overturning or at least striking against something--Foma sat and watched
them sternly.

Over the soft ru