song of a soul rent in
pieces by life."

And he began to wail in a wild voice:

"The buried dreams within my breast Will never rise again... How great
their number is!"

"There was a whole flower garden of bright, living dreams and hopes.
They perished, withered and perished. Death is within my heart. The
corpses of my dreams are rotting there. Oh! oh!"

Yozhov burst into tears, sobbing like a woman. Foma pitied him, and felt
uncomfortable with him. He jerked at his shoulder impatiently, and said:

"Stop crying! Come, how weak you are, brother!" Clasping his head in
his hand Yozhov straightened up his stooping frame, made an effort and
started again mournfully and wildly:

"How great their number is! Their sepulchre how narrow! I clothed them
all in shrouds of rhyme And many sad and solemn songs O'er them I sang
from time to time!"

"Oh, Lord!" sighed Foma in despair. "Stop that, for Christ's sake! By
God, how sad!"

In the distance the loud choral song was rolling through the darkness
and the silence. Some one was whistling, keeping time to the refrain,
and this shrill sound, which pierced the ear, ran ahead of the billow of
powerful voices. Foma looked in that direction and saw the tall, black
wall of forest, the bright fiery spot of the bonfire shining upon it,
and the misty figures surrounding the fire. The wall of forest was like
a breast, and the fire like a bloody wound in it. It seemed as though
the breast was trembling, as the blood coursed down in burning streams.
Embraced in dense gloom from all sides the people seemed on the
background of the forest, like little children; they, too, seemed to
burn, illuminated by the blaze of the bonfire. They waved their hands
and sang their songs loudly, powerfully.

And Yozhov, standing beside Foma, spoke excitedly:

"You hard-hearted blockhead! Why do you repulse me? You ought to
listen to the song of the dying soul, and weep over it, for, why was it
wounded, why is it dying? Begone from me, begone! You think I am drunk?
I am poisoned, begone!"

Without lifting his eyes off the forest and the fire, so beautiful in
the darkness, Foma made a few steps aside from Yozhov and said to him in
a low voice:

"Don't play the fool. Why do you abuse me at random?"

"I want to remain alone, and finish singing my song."

Staggering, he, too, moved aside from Foma, and after a few seconds
again exclaimed in a sobbing voice:

"My song is done! And nevermore