not even a grosh. And the difference
in people is very insignificant. There are some that have not even any
trousers and yet they reason as though they were attired in silks."

Carried away by his thoughts, Foma would have continued to give them
utterance, but Taras moved his armchair away from the table, rose and
said softly, with a sigh:

"No, thank you! I don't want any more."

Foma broke off his speech abruptly, shrugged his shoulders and looked at
Lubov with a smile.

"Where have you picked up such philosophy?" she asked, suspiciously and
drily.

"That is not philosophy. That is simply torture!" said Foma in an
undertone. "Open your eyes and look at everything. Then you will think
so yourself."

"By the way, Luba, turn your attention to the fact," began Taras,
standing with his back toward the table and scrutinizing the clock,
"that pessimism is perfectly foreign to the Anglo-Saxon race. That
which they call pessimism in Swift and in Byron is only a burning, sharp
protest against the imperfection of life and man. But you cannot find
among them the cold, well weighed and passive pessimism."

Then, as though suddenly recalling Foma, he turned to him, clasping his
hands behind his back, and, wriggling his thigh, said:

"You raise very important questions, and if you are seriously interested
in them you must read books. In them will you find many very valuable
opinions as to the meaning of life. How about you--do you read books?"

"No!" replied Foma, briefly.

"Ah!"

"I don't like them."

"Aha! But they might nevertheless be of some help to you," said Taras,
and a smile passed across his lips.

"Books? Since men cannot help me in my thoughts books can certainly do
nothing for me," ejaculated Foma, morosely.

He began to feel awkward and weary with this indifferent man. He felt
like going away, but at the same time he wished to tell Lubov something
insulting about her brother, and he waited till Taras would leave the
room. Lubov washed the dishes; her face was concentrated and thoughtful;
her hands moved lazily. Taras was pacing the room, now and then
he stopped short before the sideboard on which was the silverware,
whistled, tapped his fingers against the window-panes and examined the
articles with his eyes half shut. The pendulum of the clock flashed
beneath the glass door of the case like some broad, grinning face, and
monotonously told the seconds. When Foma noticed that Lubov glanced
at him a fe