sation in his throat, and he felt there was something
foreign in his breast, as though some dust or ashes were strewn upon his
heart, and it throbbed unevenly and with difficulty. Wishing to explain
to himself his act, he said slowly and thoughtfully, without looking at
anyone:

"I wanted to speak the truth. Is this life?"

"Fool!" said Mayakin, contemptuously. "What truth can you speak? What do
you understand?"

"My heart is wounded, that I understand! What justification have you all
in the eyes of God? To what purpose do you live? Yes, I feel--I felt the
truth!"

"He is repenting!" said Reznikov, with a sarcastic smile.

"Let him!" replied Bobrov, with contempt.

Some one added:

"It is evident, from his words, that he is out of his wits."

"To speak the truth, that's not given to everyone!" said Yakov
Tarasovich, sternly and instructively, lifting his hand upward. "It is
not the heart that grasps truth; it is the mind; do you understand that?
And as to your feeling, that's nonsense! A cow also feels when they
twist her tail. But you must understand, understand everything!
Understand also your enemy. Guess what he thinks even in his dreams, and
then go ahead!"

According to his wont, Mayakin was carried away by the exposition of his
practical philosophy, but he realised in time that a conquered man is
not to be taught how to fight, and he stopped short. Foma cast at him a
dull glance, and shook his head strangely.

"Lamb!" said Mayakin.

"Leave me alone!" entreated Foma, plaintively. "It's all yours! Well,
what else do you want? Well, you crushed me, bruised me, that serves me
right! Who am I? O Lord!"

All listened attentively to his words, and in that attention there was
something prejudiced, something malicious.

"I have lived," said Foma in a heavy voice. "I have observed. I have
thought; my heart has become wounded with thoughts! And here--the
abscess burst. Now I am utterly powerless! As though all my blood had
gushed out. I have lived until this day, and still thought that now I
will speak the truth. Well, I have spoken it."

He talked monotonously, colourlessly, and his speech resembled that of
one in delirium.

"I have spoken it, and I have only emptied myself, that's all. Not
a trace have my words left behind them. Everything is uninjured. And
within me something blazed up; it has burned out, and there's nothing
more there. What have I to hope for now? And everything remains as it
was."