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 others bow their backs in toil all their life, and they haven't a penny."

But Fomá can only be destructive. He is not constructive. The dim groping spirit of his mother and the curse of his environment press too heavily upon him, and he is crushed to debauchery and madness. 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