“What is going on in me?” he thought. “I’ve begun to carouse. Why? I don’t know how to live. I don’t understand myself. Who am I?”
He was astonished by this question, and he paused over it, attempting to make it clear to himself—why he was unable to live as firmly and confidently as other people do. He was now still more tortured. by conscience. More uneasy at this thought, he tossed about on the hay and irritated, pushed Sasha with his elbow.
“Be careful!” said she, although nearly asleep.
“It’s all right. You’re not such a lady of quality!” muttered Foma.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
She turned her back to him, and said lazily, with a lazy yawn:
“I dreamed that I became a harpist again. It seemed to me that I was singing a solo, and opposite me stood a big, dirty dog, snarling and waiting for me to finish the song. And I was afraid of the dog. And I knew that it would devour me, as soon as I stopped singing. So I kept singing, singing. And suddenly it seemed my voice failed me. Horrible! And the dog is gnashing his teeth. Oh Lord, have mercy on me! What does it mean?”
“Stop your idle talk!” Foma interrupted her sternly. “You better tell me what you know about me.”
“I know, for instance, that you are awake now,” she answered, without turning to him.