oticed their
concealed contempt for him, and almost always saw that they did not do
the work as he had ordered, but did it in a different and better way. In
this he felt the clever hand of his godfather, and understood that the
old man was thus pressing him in order to turn him to his way. And at
the same time he noticed that he was not the master of his business,
but only a component part of it, and an insignificant part at that. This
irritated him and moved him farther away from the old man, it augumented
his longing to tear himself away from his business, even at the cost of
his own ruin. Infuriated, he flung money about the taverns and dives,
but this did not last long. Yakov Tarasovich closed his accounts in the
banks, withdrawing all deposits. Soon Foma began to feel that even on
promissory notes, they now gave him the money not quite as willingly as
before. This stung his vanity; and his indignation was roused, and
he was frightened when he learned that his godfather had circulated a
rumour in the business world that he, Foma, was out of his mind, and
that, perhaps, it might become necessary to appoint a guardian for
him. Foma did not know the limits of his godfather's power, and did not
venture to take anyone's counsel in this matter. He was convinced that
in the business world the old man was a power, and that he could do
anything he pleased. At first it was painful for him to feel Mayakin's
hand over him, but later he became reconciled to this, renounced
everything, and resumed his restless, drunken life, wherein there was
only one consolation--the people. With each succeeding day he became
more and more convinced that they were more irrational and altogether
worse than he--that they were not the masters of life, but its slaves,
and that it was turning them around, bending and breaking them at its
will, while they succumbed to it unfeelingly and resignedly, and none
of them but he desired freedom. But he wanted it, and therefore proudly
elevated himself above his drinking companions, not desiring to see in
them anything but wrong.

One day in a tavern a certain half-intoxicated man complained to him of
his life. This was a small-sized, meagre man, with dim, frightened eyes,
unshaven, in a short frock coat, and with a bright necktie. He blinked
pitifully, his ears quivered spasmodically, and his soft little voice
also trembled.

"I've struggled hard to make my way among men; I've tried everything,
I've worked