m as in a whirlwind, caroused at his expense, abused him, fought,
screamed, and even wept more than once. And he beat them. He remembered
that one day he had struck somebody on the face, torn someone's coat off
and thrown it into the water and that some one had kissed his hands with
wet, cold lips as disgusting as frogs. Had kissed and wept, imploring
him not to kill. Certain faces flashed through his memory, certain
sounds and words rang in it. A woman in a yellow silk waist, unfastened
at the breast, had sung in a loud, sobbing voice:

"And so let us live while we can
And then--e'en grass may cease to grow."

All these people, like himself, grown wild and beastlike, were seized by
the same dark wave and carried away like rubbish. All these people,
like himself, must have been afraid to look forward to see whither this
powerful, wild wave was carrying them. And drowning their fear in wine,
they were rushing forward down the current struggling, shouting, doing
something absurd, playing the fool, clamouring, clamouring, without ever
being cheerful. He was doing the same, whirling in their midst. And now
it seemed to him, that he was doing all this for fear of himself, in
order to pass the sooner this strip of life, or in order not to think of
what would be afterward.

Amid the burning turmoil of carouses, in the crowd of people, seized by
debauchery, perplexed by violent passions, half-crazy in their longing
to forget themselves--only Sasha was calm and contained. She never drank
to intoxication, always addressed people in a firm, authoritative voice,
and all her movements were equally confident, as though this stream had
not taken possession of her, but she was herself mastering its violent
course. She seemed to Foma the cleverest person of all those that
surrounded him, and the most eager for noise and carouse; she held them
all in her sway, forever inventing something new and speaking in one and
the same manner to everybody; for the driver, the lackey and the sailor
she had the same tone and the same words as for her friends and for
Foma. She was younger and prettier than Pelageya, but her caresses were
silent, cold. Foma imagined that deep in her heart she was concealing
from everybody something terrible, that she would never love anyone,
never reveal herself entire. This secrecy in the woman attracted him
toward her with a feeling of timorous curiosity, of a great, strained
interest in her calm, cold sou