ad it!" Foma assured him, feeling embarrassed before Yozhov, and
that Yozhov was offended by such regard for his writings. "Indeed, it is
interesting since it is about myself," he added, smiling kindheartedly
at his comrade.

In saying this he was not at all interested, and he said it merely out
of pity for Yozhov. There was quite another feeling in him; he wished to
know what sort of a man Yozhov was, and why he had become so worn
out. This meeting with Yozhov gave rise in him to a tranquil and kind
feeling; it called forth recollections of his childhood, and these
flashed now in his memory,--flashed like modest little lights, timidly
shining at him from the distance of the past. Yozhov walked up to the
table on which stood a boiling samovar, silently poured out two glasses
of tea as strong as tar, and said to Foma:

"Come and drink tea. And tell me about yourself."

"I have nothing to tell you. I have not seen anything in life. Mine is
an empty life! You had better tell me about yourself. I am sure you know
more than I do, at any rate."

Yozhov became thoughtful, not ceasing to turn his whole body and to
waggle his head. In thoughtfulness his face became motionless, all its
wrinkles gathered near his eyes and seemed to surround them with rays,
and because of this his eyes receded deeper under his forehead.

"Yes, my dear, I have seen a thing or two, and I know a great deal," he
began, with a shake of the head. "And perhaps I know even more than it
is necessary for me to know, and to know more than it is necessary is
just as harmful to man as it is to be ignorant of what it is essential
to know. Shall I tell you how I have lived? Very well; that is, I'll
try. I have never told any one about myself, because I have never
aroused interest in anyone. It is most offensive to live on earth
without arousing people's interest in you!"

"I can see by your face and by everything else that your life has not
been a smooth one!" said Foma, feeling pleased with the fact that, to
all appearances, life was not sweet to his comrade as well. Yozhov drank
his tea at one draught, thrust the glass on the saucer, placed his feet
on the edge of the chair, and clasping his knees in his hands, rested
his chin upon them. In this pose, small sized and flexible as rubber, he
began:

"The student Sachkov, my former teacher, who is now a doctor of
medicine, a whist-player and a mean fellow all around, used to tell me
whenever I knew my less