rn to
charitable institutions with humble petitions for loans on the strength
of my poverty. If the philanthropists could only reckon up how much of
the spirit they kill in man while supporting the life of his body! If
they only knew that each rouble they give for bread contains ninety-nine
copecks' worth of poison for the soul! If they could only burst from
excess of their kindness and pride, which they draw from their holy
activity! There is none on earth more disgusting and repulsive than he
who gives alms, even as there is none more miserable than he who accepts
it!"

Yozhov staggered about in the room like a drunken man, seized with
madness, and the paper under his feet was rustling, tearing, flying in
scraps. He gnashed his teeth, shook his head, his hands waved in the air
like broken wings of a bird, and altogether it seemed as though he
were being boiled in a kettle of hot water. Foma looked at him with a
strange, mixed sensation; he pitied Yozhov, and at the same time he was
pleased to see him suffering.

"I am not alone, he is suffering, too," thought Foma, as Yozhov spoke.
And something clashed in Yozhov's throat, like broken glass, and creaked
like an unoiled hinge.

"Poisoned by the kindness of men, I was ruined through the fatal
capacity of every poor fellow during the making of his career, through
the capacity of being reconciled with little in the expectation of
much. Oh! Do you know, more people perish through lack of proper
self-appreciation than from consumption, and perhaps that is why the
leaders of the masses serve as district inspectors!"

"The devil take the district inspectors!" said Foma, with a wave of the
hand. "Tell me about yourself."

"About myself! I am here entire!" exclaimed Yozhov, stopping short in
the middle of the room, and striking his chest with his hands. "I have
already accomplished all I could accomplish. I have attained the rank of
the public's entertainer--and that is all I can do! To know what should
be done, and not to be able to do it, not to have the strength for your
work--that is torture!"

"That's it! Wait awhile!" said Foma, enthusiastically. "Now tell me what
one should do in order to live calmly; that is, in order to be satisfied
with one's self."

To Foma these words sounded loud, but empty, and their sounds died away
without stirring any emotion in his heart, without giving rise to a
single thought in his mind.

"You must always be in love with somethin