passenger in it were shaking
and hopping about; for some reason or other they both bent forward
and together with the horse formed one big, black mass. The street was
speckled with spots of light and shade, but in the distance the darkness
seemed thick as though the street were fenced off by a wall, rising from
earth to the skies. Somehow it occurred to Foma that these people did
not know whither they were going. And he, too, did not know whither he
was going. His house rose before his imagination--six big rooms, where
he lived alone. Aunt Anfisa had gone to the cloister, perhaps never to
return--she might die there. At home were Ivan, the old deaf dvornik,
the old maid, Sekleteya, his cook and servant, and a black, shaggy dog,
with a snout as blunt as that of a sheat-fish. And the dog, too, was
old.

"Perhaps I really ought to get married," thought Foma, with a sigh.

But the very thought of how easy it was for him to get married made him
ill at ease, and even ridiculous in his own eyes. It were but necessary
to ask his godfather tomorrow for a bride,--and before a month would
pass, a woman would live with him in his house. And she would be near
him day and night. He would say to her: "Let's go for a walk!" and she
would go. He would tell her: "Let's go to sleep!" and again she would
go. Should she desire to kiss him, she would kiss him, even though he
did not like it. And if he should tell her: "Go away, I don't want it,"
she would feel offended. What would he speak to her about? What would
she tell him? He thought and pictured to himself young ladies of his
acquaintance, daughters of merchants. Some of them were very pretty, and
he knew that any one of them would marry him willingly. But he did not
care to have any of them as his wife. How awkward and shameful it must
be when a girl becomes a wife. And what does the newly-married couple
say to each other after the wedding, in the bedroom? Foma tried to
think what he would say in such a case, and confused, he began to laugh,
finding no appropriate words. Then he recalled Luba Mayakin. She would
surely be first to say something, uttering some unintelligible words,
which were foreign to herself. Somehow it seemed to him that all her
words were foreign, and she did not speak as was proper for a girl of
her age, appearance and descent.

And here his thoughts rested on Lubov's complaints. His gait became
slower; he was now astounded by the fact that all the people that