y!" muttered Foma.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

She turned her back to him, and said lazily, with a lazy yawn:

"I dreamed that I became a harpist again. It seemed to me that I was
singing a solo, and opposite me stood a big, dirty dog, snarling and
waiting for me to finish the song. And I was afraid of the dog. And I
knew that it would devour me, as soon as I stopped singing. So I kept
singing, singing. And suddenly it seemed my voice failed me. Horrible!
And the dog is gnashing his teeth. Oh Lord, have mercy on me! What does
it mean?"

"Stop your idle talk!" Foma interrupted her sternly. "You better tell me
what you know about me."

"I know, for instance, that you are awake now," she answered, without
turning to him.

"Awake? That's true. I've awakened," said Foma, thoughtfully and,
throwing his arm behind his head, went on: "That's why I am asking you.
What sort of man do you think I am?"

"A man with a drunken headache," answered Sasha, yawning.

"Aleksandra!" exclaimed Foma, beseechingly, "don't talk nonsense! Tell
me conscientiously, what do you think of me?"

"I don't think anything!" she said drily. "Why are you bothering me with
nonsense?"

"Is this nonsense?" said Foma, sadly. "Eh, you devils! This is the
principal thing. The most essential thing to me."

He heaved a deep sigh and became silent. After a minute's silence, Sasha
began to speak in her usual, indifferent voice:

"Tell him who he is, and why he is such as he is? Did you ever see! Is
it proper to ask such questions of our kind of women? And on what ground
should I think about each and every man? I have not even time to think
about myself, and, perhaps, I don't feel like doing it at all."

Foma laughed drily and said:

"I wish I were like this--and had no desires for anything."

Then the woman raised her head from the pillow, looked into Foma's face
and lay down again, saying:

"You are musing too much. Look out--no good will come of it to you.
I cannot tell you anything about yourself. It is impossible to say
anything true about a man. Who can understand him? Man does not know
himself. Well, here, I'll tell you--you are better than others. But what
of it?"

"And in what way am I better?" asked Foma, thoughtfully.

"So! When one sings a good song--you weep. When one does some mean
thing--you beat him. With women you are simple, you are not impudent to
them. You are peaceable. And you can also be daring, sometim