You don't
define it quite properly. It is not conscience that interferes with
you, but timidity, I believe. You live outside of society. You are
bashful, and awkward. Youare dimly conscious of all this, and it is
this consciousness that you mistake for conscience. In this case
there can be no question about conscience. What has conscience to
do here, since it is natural for man to enjoy himself, since it is
his necessity and his right?"
Foma walked on, regulating his steps to those of his companion, and
staring along the road, which lay between two rows of buildings,
resembled an enormous ditch, and was filled with darkness. It
seemed that there was no end to the road and that something dark,
inexhaustible and suffocating was slowly flowing along it in the
distance. Ookhtishchev's kind, suasive voice rang monotonously in
Foma's ears, and though he was not listening to his words, he felt
that they were tenacious in their way; that they adhered to him,
and that he was involuntarily memorizing them. Notwithstanding that
a man walked beside him, he felt as though he were alone, straying
in the dark.
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