He does not drink because liquor tastes good in his mouth. In the
vile companions who purvey to his baser appetites he finds no charm.
It is all utterly despicable and sordid, but thither his quest leads
him and he follows the quest. He knows that everything is wrong, but
he cannot right it, cannot tell why. He can only attack and
demolish. "What justification have you all in the sight of God? Why
do you live?" he demands of the conclave of merchants, of life's
successes. "You have not constructed life--you have made a cesspool!
You have disseminated filth and stifling exhalations by your deeds.
Have you any conscience? Do you remember God? A five-kopek piece--
that is your God! But you have expelled your conscience!"
Like the cry of Isaiah, "Go to, now, ye rich men, weep and howl for
your misfortunes that shall come upon you," is Foma's: "You blood-
suckers! You live on other people's strength; you work with other
people's hands! For all this you shall be made to pay! You shall
perish--you shall be called to account for all! For all--to the last
little tear-drop!"
Stunned by this puddle of life, unable to make sense of it, Foma
questions, and questions vainly, whether of Sofya Medynsky in her
drawing-room of beauty, or in the foulest depths of the first chance
courtesan's heart.
Pages:
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222