“Why do you brag?” Foma, bursts out upon him.  “What have you to brag about?  Your son—­where is he?  Your daughter—­what is she?  Ekh, you manager of life!  Come, now, you’re clever, you know everything—­tell me, why do you live?  Why do you accumulate money?  Aren’t you going to die?  Well, what then?” And Mayakin finds himself speechless and without answer, but unshaken and unconvinced.

Receiving by heredity the fierce, bull-like nature of his father plus the passive indomitableness and groping spirit of his mother, Foma, proud and rebellious, is repelled by the selfish, money-seeking environment into which he is born.  Ignat, his father, and Mayakin, the godfather, and all the horde of successful merchants singing the paean of the strong and the praises of merciless, remorseless laissez faire, cannot entice him.  Why? he demands.  This is a nightmare, this life!  It is without significance!  What does it all mean?  What is there underneath?  What is the meaning of that which is underneath?

“You do well to pity people,” Ignat tells Foma, the boy, “only you must use judgment with your pity.  First consider the man, find out what he is like, what use can be made of him; and if you see that he is a strong and capable man, help him if you like.  But if a man is weak, not inclined to work—­spit upon him and go your way.  And you must know that when a man complains about everything, and cries out and groans—­he is not worth more than two kopeks, he is not worthy of pity, and will be of no use to you if you do help him.”

Such the frank and militant commercialism, bellowed out between glasses of strong liquor.  Now comes Mayakin, speaking softly and without satire: 

“Eh, my boy, what is a beggar?  A beggar is a man who is forced, by fate, to remind us of Christ; he is Christ’s brother; he is the bell of the Lord, and rings in life for the purpose of awakening our conscience, of stirring up the satiety of man’s flesh.  He stands under the window and sings, ‘For Christ’s sa-ake!’ and by that chant he reminds us of Christ, of His holy command to help our neighbour.  But men have so ordered their lives that it is utterly impossible for them to act in accordance with Christ’s teaching, and Jesus Christ has become entirely superfluous to us.  Not once, but, in all probability, a thousand times, we have given Him over to be crucified, but still we cannot banish Him from our lives so long as His poor brethren sing His name in the streets and remind us of Him.  And so now we have hit upon the idea of shutting up the beggars in such special buildings, so that they may not roam about the streets and stir up our consciences.”

But Foma will have none of it.  He is neither to be enticed nor cajoled.  The cry of his nature is for light.  He must have light.  And in burning revolt he goes seeking the meaning of life.  “His thoughts embraced all those petty people who toiled at hard labour.  It was strange—­why did they live?  What satisfaction was it to them to live on the earth?  All they did was to perform their dirty, arduous toil, eat poorly; they were miserably clad, addicted to drunkenness.  One was sixty years old, but he still toiled side by side with young men.  And they all presented themselves to Foma’s imagination as a huge heap of worms, who were swarming over the earth merely to eat.”