His voice sounded protesting, insulted, his legs clapped together. He seemed as soft as if his bones had been removed from his body.
"I'm not going there," said Klimkov.
"What do you mean?"
"Just so. First I'll walk the streets, and see what they're going to do."
Viekov sighed again, and whistled.
"Yes, of course. You're a single man. But when you have a family, that is, a woman who demands this, that, the fifth thing, and the tenth thing, then you'll go where you don't want to, yes, you will. The need for a living compels a man to dance a tightrope. When I see tricks on a tightrope, my head begins to turn, and I feel a pain in the lower part of my chest. But I think to myself, 'If it would be necessary for your livelihood, then you, too, Ivan Petrovich Viekov, would dance a tightrope.' Yes, indeed. A poor man must live by doing things that wring his heart, and whether he wants to or not. Such is the law of nature, as Grokhotov says."
Viekov tossed himself about the room, knocking against the table and the chairs, mumbling and swelling his rosy cheeks. His little face was puffed like a bladder. His insignificant eyes disappeared, and the little red nose hid itself between his cheeks. His sorrowful voice, his dejected figure, his hopeless words annoyed Klimkov, who said unamiably:
"Soon everything will be arranged differently. So there's no use complaining now."
"But in our place they don't want a different arrangement," exclaimed Viekov, gesticulating, and stopping in front of Yevsey. "You understand?"
Yevsey disturbed turned on the chair, desiring to express a thought in his mind, but he was unable to find words, and began to lace his shoes sniffling.