d taken a
liking to me--and consented; she was good--but, otherwise, she was in
every way the same as you--though you are prettier than she. But I took
a liking to a certain lady--a lady of noble birth! They said she led a
loose life, but I did not get her. Yes, she was clever, intelligent;
she lived in luxury. I used to think--that's where I'll taste the real
thing! I did not get her--and, it may be, if I had succeeded, all would
have taken a different turn. I yearned toward her. I thought--I could
not tear myself away. While now that I have given myself to drink, I've
drowned her in wine--I am forgetting her--and that also is wrong. O man!
You are a rascal, to be frank."

Foma became silent and sank into meditation. And Sasha rose from the
bench and paced the hut to and fro, biting her lips. Then she stopped
short before him, and, clasping her hands to her head, said:

"Do you know what? I'll leave you."

"Where will you go?" asked Foma, without lifting his head.

"I don't know--it's all the same!"

"But why?"

"You're always saying unnecessary things. It is lonesome with you. You
make me sad."

Foma lifted his head, looked at her and burst into mournful laughter.

"Really? Is it possible?"

"You do make me sad! Do you know? If I should reflect on it, I would
understand what you say and why you say it--for I am also of that
sort--when the time comes, I shall also think of all this. And then I
shall be lost. But now it is too early for me. No, I want to live yet,
and then, later, come what will!"

"And I--will I, too, be lost?" asked Foma, indifferently, already
fatigued by his words.

"Of course!" replied Sasha, calmly and confidently. "All such people
are lost. He, whose character is inflexible, and who has no brains--what
sort of a life is his? We are like this."

"I have no character at all," said Foma, stretching himself. Then after
a moment's silence he added:

"And I have no brains, either."

They were silent for a minute, eyeing each other.

"What are we going to do?" asked Foma.

"We must have dinner."

"No, I mean, in general? Afterward?"

"Afterward? I don't know?"

"So you are leaving me?"

"I am. Come, let's carouse some more before we part. Let's go to Kazan,
and there we'll have a spree--smoke and flame! I'll sing your farewell
song."

"Very well," assented Foma. "It's quite proper at leave taking. Eh, you
devil! That's a merry life! Listen, Sasha. They say that women of your