l, which seemed even as dark as her eyes.

Somehow Foma said to her one day:

"But what piles of money you and I have squandered!"

She glanced at him, and asked:

"And why should we save it?"

"Indeed, why?" thought Foma, astonished by the fact that she reasoned so
simply.

"Who are you?" he asked her at another occasion.

"Why, have you forgotten my name?"

"Well, the idea!"

"What do you wish to know then?"

"I am asking you about your origin."

"Ah! I am a native of the province of Yaroslavl. I'm from Ooglich. I was
a harpist. Well, shall I taste sweeter to you, now that you know who I
am?"

"Do I know it?" asked Foma, laughing.

"Isn't that enough for you? I shall tell you nothing more about it. What
for? We all come from the same place, both people and beasts. And what
is there that I can tell you about myself? And what for? All this talk
is nonsense. Let's rather think a little as to how we shall pass the
day."

On that day they took a trip on a steamer, with an orchestra of music,
drank champagne, and every one of them got terribly drunk. Sasha sang
a peculiar, wonderfully sad song, and Foma, moved by her singing, wept
like a child. Then he danced with her the "Russian dance," and finally,
perspiring and fatigued, threw himself overboard in his clothes and was
nearly drowned.

Now, recalling all this and a great deal more, he felt ashamed of
himself and dissatisfied with Sasha. He looked at her well-shaped
figure, heard her even breathing and felt that he did not love this
woman, and that she was unnecessary to him. Certain gray, oppressive
thoughts were slowly springing up in his heavy, aching head. It seemed
to him as though everything he had lived through during this time was
twisted within him into a heavy and moist ball, and that now this ball
was rolling about in his breast, unwinding itself slowly, and the thin
gray cords were binding him.

"What is going on in me?" he thought. "I've begun to carouse. Why? I
don't know how to live. I don't understand myself. Who am I?"

He was astonished by this question, and he paused over it, attempting
to make it clear to himself--why he was unable to live as firmly and
confidently as other people do. He was now still more tortured. by
conscience. More uneasy at this thought, he tossed about on the hay and
irritated, pushed Sasha with his elbow.

"Be careful!" said she, although nearly asleep.

"It's all right. You're not such a lady of qualit