osely, disdainfully, sarcastically. And these smiles
stung him like needles. A serious-looking peasant, with a big gray
beard, who had not yet opened his mouth up to that time, suddenly opened
it now, came closer to Foma and said slowly:

"And even if we were to drink the Volga dry, and eat up that mountain,
into the bargain--that too would be forgotten, your Honour. Everything
will be forgotten. Life is long. It is not for us to do such deeds
as would stand out above everything else. But we can put up
scaffoldings--that we can!"

He spoke and sceptically spitting at his feet, indifferently walked off
from Foma, and slipped into the crowd, as a wedge into a tree. His
words crushed Foma completely; he felt, that the peasants considered him
stupid and ridiculous. And in order to save his importance as master in
their eyes, to attract again the now exhausted attention of the peasants
to himself, he bristled up, comically puffed up his cheeks and blurted
out in an impressive voice:

"I make you a present of three buckets of vodka."

Brief speeches have always the most meaning and are always apt to
produce a strong impression. The peasants respectfully made way for
Foma, making low bows to him, and, smiling merrily and gratefully,
thanked him for his generosity in a unanimous roar of approval.

"Take me over to the shore," said Foma, feeling that the excitement that
had just been aroused in him would not last long. A worm was gnawing his
heart, and he was weary.

"I feel disgusted!" he said, entering the hut where Sasha, in a
smart, pink gown, was bustling about the table, arranging wines and
refreshments. "I feel disgusted, Aleksandra! If you could only do
something with me, eh?"

She looked at him attentively and, seating herself on the bench,
shoulder to shoulder with him, said:

"Since you feel disgusted--it means that you want something. What is it
you want?"

"I don't know!" replied Foma, nodding his head mournfully.

"Think of it--search."

"I am unable to think. Nothing comes out of my thinking."

"Eh, you, my child!" said Sasha, softly and disdainfully, moving away
from him. "Your head is superfluous to you."

Foma neither caught her tone nor noticed her movement. Leaning his hands
against the bench, he bent forward, looked at the floor, and, swaying
his body to and fro, said:

"Sometimes I think and think--and the whole soul is stuck round with
thoughts as with tar. And suddenly everything disappe