“I cannot understand what it is! Lubov also says the same.”
“Which Lubov? What does she say?”
“My foster-sister. She says the same,—she is forever complaining of life. It is impossible to live, she says.”
“Oh, she is yet young! And it is a great happiness that she already speaks of this.”
“Happiness!” Foma drawled out mockingly. “It must be a fine happiness that makes people sigh and complain.”
“You’d better listen to complaints. There is always much wisdom in these complaints of men. Oh! There is more wisdom in these complaints than anywhere else. You listen to these,—they will teach you to find your way.”
Foma heard the woman’s voice, which sounded convincing; and perplexed, looked about him. Everything had long been familiar to him, but today it looked somewhat new to him. A mass of trifles filled the room, all the walls were covered with pictures and shelves, bright and beautiful objects were staring from every corner. The reddish light of the lamp filled one with melancholy. Twilight wrapped everything in the room, and only here and there the gold of the frames, or the white spots of marble flashed dimly. Heavy fabrics were motionlessly hanging before the doors. All this embarrassed and almost choked Foma; he felt as though he had lost his way. He was sorry for the woman. But she also irritated him.
“Do you hear how I speak to you? I wish I were your mother, or your sister. Never before did anybody awaken in me so warm and kindred a feeling as you have done. And you, you look at me in such an unfriendly way. Do you believe me? Yes? No?”
He looked at her and said with a sigh:
“I don’t know. I used to believe you.”