man, standing before him,
went on hoarsely, with animation, beastlike rolling his large, but dim
and swollen, eyes:

"You demand of us respect for you, you fool! How have you merited it?
Who are you? A drunkard, drinking away the fortune of your father. You
savage! You ought to be proud that I, a renowned artist, a disinterested
and faithful worshipper at the shrine of art, drink from the same
bottle with you! This bottle contains sandal and molasses, infused with
snuff-tobacco, while you think it is port wine. It is your license for
the name of savage and ass."

"Eh, you jailbird!" roared Foma, rushing toward the artist. But he was
seized and held back. Struggling in the arms of those that seized him,
he was compelled to listen without replying, to the thundering, deep and
heavy bass of the man who resembled a swab.

"You have thrown to men a few copecks out of the stolen roubles, and
you consider yourself a hero! You are twice a thief. You have stolen the
roubles and now you are stealing gratitude for your few copecks! But
I shall not give it to you! I, who have devoted all my life to the
condemnation of vice, I stand before you and say openly: 'You are a fool
and a beggar because you are too rich! Here lies the wisdom: all the
rich are beggars.' That's how the famous coupletist, Rimsky-Kannibalsky,
serves Truth!"

Foma was now standing meekly among the people that had closely
surrounded him, and he eagerly listened to the coupletist's thundering
words, which now aroused in him a sensation as though somebody was
scratching a sore spot, and thus soothing the acute itching of the pain.
The people were excited; some attempted to check the coupletist's flow
of eloquence, others wanted to lead Foma away somewhere. Without saying
a word he pushed them aside and listened, more and more absorbed by the
intense pleasure of humiliation which he felt in the presence of these
people. The pain irritated by the words of the coupletist, caressed
Foma's soul more and more passionately, and the coupletist went on
thundering, intoxicated with the impurity of his accusation:

"You think that you are the master of life? You are the low slave of the
rouble."

Someone in the crowd hiccoughed, and, evidently displeased with himself
for this, cursed each time he hiccoughed:

"Oh devil."

And a certain, unshaven, fat-faced man took pity on Foma, or, perhaps,
became tired of witnessing that scene, and, waving his hands, he drawled