he fact of your
existence has been repaid by the blood and the tears of scores of
generations of Russian people. O, you nits! How dearly your country
has paid for you! What are you doing for its sake in return? Have you
transformed the tears of the past into pearls? What have you contributed
toward life? What have you accomplished? You have permitted yourselves
to be conquered? What are you doing? You permit yourselves to be
mocked.'"

He stamped his feet with rage, and setting his teeth together stared at
Foma with burning, angry looks, and resembled an infuriated wild beast.

"I would say to them: 'You! You reason too much, but you are not very
wise, and you are utterly powerless, and you are all cowards! Your
hearts are filled up with morality and noble intentions, but they are as
soft and warm as feather beds; the spirit of creativeness sleeps within
them a profound and calm sleep, and your hearts do not throb, they
merely rock slowly, like cradles.' Dipping my finger in the blood of my
heart, I would smear upon their brows the brands of my reproaches, and
they, paupers in spirit, miserable in their self-contentment, they would
suffer. Oh, how they would suffer! My scourge is sharp, my hand is firm!
And I love too deeply to have compassion! They would suffer! And now
they do not suffer, for they speak of their sufferings too much, too
often, and too loud! They lie! Genuine suffering is mute, and genuine
passion knows no bounds! Passions, passions! When will they spring up in
the hearts of men? We are all miserable because of apathy."

Short of breath he burst into a fit of coughing, he coughed for a long
time, hopping about hither and thither, waving his hands like a madman.
And then he again stopped in front of Foma with pale face and blood-shot
eyes. He breathed heavily, his lips trembled now and then, displaying
his small, sharp teeth. Dishevelled, with his head covered with short
heir, he looked like a perch just thrown out of the water. This was
not the first time Foma saw him in such a state, and, as always, he was
infected by his agitation. He listened to the fiery words of the small
man, silently, without attempting to understand their meaning, having
no desire to know against whom they were directed, absorbing their force
only. Yozhov's words bubbled on like boiling water, and heated his soul.

"I will say to them, to those miserable idlers:

'Look! Life goes onward, leaving you behind!'"

"Eh! That's