[At times his thoughts and feelings seemed to me capriciously, even deliberately, perverse, but what particularly struck and upset men was just the stern directness of his thought, like Job, the fearless questioner of the cruel God. He said:
"I was walking one day on the road to Kiev, about the end of May; the earth was a paradise; everything rejoiced; the birds sang; the bees hummed; the sunshine and everything seemed so happy, humane, splendid. I was moved to tears; I felt myself a bee to whom are given the best flowers, and I felt God close to my soul. And suddenly I saw by the roadside a man and woman, pilgrims; they were lying together, both grey, dirty, and old —they writhed like worms, made noises, murmured, and the sun pitilessly lighted up their naked blue legs and wizened bodies. It struck such a blow to my soul. Lord, thou creator of beauty, how art thou not ashamed? I felt utterly wretched——
"Yes, you see what things happen. Nature—the devout considered her the work of the devil—cruelly and mockingly torments man; she takes away the power and leaves the desire. All men with a living soul experience that. Only man is made to experience the whole shame and horror of that torment, given to him in his flesh. We carry it in ourselves as an inevitable punishment—a punishment for what sin?"
While he said this the look in his eyes changed strangely, now childishly plaintive, now hard and stern and bright. His lips trembled, his moustache bristled. When he had finished, he took a handkerchief from the pocket of his blouse and wiped his face hard, though it was dry. Then he smoothed his beard with the knotted fingers of his strong peasant's hand, and repeated gently: "Yes, for what sin?">[
Once I was walking with him on the lower road from Dyulbev to Ai-Todor On; he was walking with the light step of a young man, when he said to me more nervously than was usual with him: "The flesh should be the obedient dog of the spirit, running to do its bidding; but we—how do we live? The flesh rages and riots, and the spirit follows it helpless and miserable."
He rubbed his chest hard over the heart, raised his eyebrows, and then, remembering something, went on: "One autumn in Moscow in an alley near the Sukhariov Gate I once saw a drunken woman lying in the gutter. A stream of filthy water flowed from the yard of a house right under her neck and back. She lay in that cold liquid, muttering, shivering, wriggling her body in the wet, but she could not get up."
He shuddered, half closed his eyes, shook his head, and went on gently: "Let's sit down here.... It's the most horrible and disgusting thing, a drunken woman. I wanted to help her get up, but I couldn't; I felt such a loathing; she was so slippery and slimy—I felt that if I'd touched her, I could not have washed my hand clean for a month —horrible. And on the curb sat a bright, grey-eyed boy, the tears running down his cheeks: he was sobbing and repeating wearily and helplessly: 'Mu-um ... mu-um-my ... do get up.' She would move her arms, grunt, lift her head, and again—bang went her neck into the filth."
He was silent, and then looking round, he repeated almost in a whisper: "Yes, yes, horrible. You've seen many drunken women? Many—my God! You, you must not write about that, you mustn't."
"Why?"
He looked straight into my eyes and smiling repeated: "Why?" Then thoughtfully and slowly he said: "I don't know. It just slipped out ... it's a shame to write about filth. But yet why not write about it? Yes, it's necessary to write all about everything, everything."