not wish to speak in such a serious, earnest way, but in a soft
and fatherly tone. And the teacher felt as if something were
rising from his breast into his throat . . . But he could not
find any powerful words.

"What kind of a man are you? . . . Your soul seems to be torn
away--and you still continue speaking . . . as if you knew
something . . . It would be better if you were silent."

"Ah, Tyapa, what you say is true," replied the teacher, sadly.
"The people . . . you are right . . . they are numberless . . .
but I am a stranger to them . . . and they are strangers to me .
. . Do you see where the tragedy of my life is hidden? . . .
But let me alone! I shall suffer . . . and there are no prophets
also . . . No. You are right, I speak a great deal . . . But
it is no good to anyone. I shall be always silent . . . Only
don't speak with me like this . . . Ah, old man, you do not know
. . . You do not know . . . And you cannot understand."

And in the end the teacher cried. He cried so easily and so
freely, with such torrents of flowing tears, that he soon found
relief.

"You ought to go into a village . . . become a clerk or a teacher
. . . You would be well fed there. What are you crying for?"
asked Tyapa, sadly.

But the teacher was crying as if the tears quieted and comforted
him.