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Dark, thick blood began to gush in a
narrow stream from his open mouth across his blue cheek.
Foma struck his breast with both hands, and kneeling before the dead
body, he wildly cried aloud. He was trembling with fright, and with
eyes like those of a madman he was searching for someone in the
verdure of the garden.
CHAPTER IV
HIS father's death stupefied Foma and filled him with a strange
sensation; quiet was poured into his soul--a painful, immovable
quiet, which absorbed all the sounds of life without accounting
for it. All sorts of acquaintances were bustling about him; they
appeared, disappeared, said something to him--his replies to them
were untimely, and their words called forth no images in him,
drowning, without leaving any trace, in the bottomless depths of
the death-like silence which filled his soul. He neither cried,
nor grieved, nor thought of anything; pale and gloomy, with
knitted brow, he was attentively listening to this quiet, which
had forced out all his feelings, benumbed his heart and tightly
clutched his brains.


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