gleam in Romach- kin’s direction. His mocking lips muttered something like, abject “You worm Romachkin,” with devastating scorn. And he passed by. Demol- ished, Romachkin stumbled over a stone, tottered, almost fell. Two men, sprung from nowhere, caught him in time. you feel “Do ill, citizen?” They must be members of the Chief’s secret-police escort. me “Let alone!” Romachkin shouted at them, beside himself with rage—but actu- ally he barely breathed the words, or other words, in a despairing whis- per. The two men, who were holding him by the elbows, let him go. drink when you don’t know how, idiot,” muttered “Don’t one. “Damned vegetarian!” Romachkin sank onto a bench beside a young couple. A voice of thunder—his own—rang in his head: “Coward, coward, cow- ard, coward . . The couple, paying no attention to him, went on quarreling. you see her the woman said, . . .” (the “If “I next words were inaudible) had enough. I’ve suffered too much, “I’ve I . . .” (more inaudible words). beg you . . .” “I An anemic creature, hardly more than a girl—lifeless hair, a face covered with pink pimples. The fellow answered: make me tired, Maria. Stop it. You make me tired.” “You And he stared into the distance. It was all relentlessly logical. Romachkin rose as if pushed up by a spring, looked at the couple implacably, and said: are all cowards—do you hear me?” “We It was so obvious, that the tension of his despair snapped; he was able to get up, to walk as he had walked before, to reach the office without being a minute late, go back to his graphs, drink his glass of tea at four o’clock, answer questions, finish his day’s work, go home
gleam in Romach- kin’s direction. His mocking lips muttered something like, “You abject worm Romachkin,” with devastating scorn. And he passed by. Demol- ished, Romachkin stumbled over a stone, tottered, almost fell. Two men, sprung from nowhere, caught him in time. “Do you feel ill, citizen?” They must be members of the Chief’s secret-police escort. “Let me alone!” Romachkin shouted at them, beside himself with rage—but actu- ally he barely breathed the words, or other words, in a despairing whis- per. The two men, who were holding him by the elbows, let him go. “Don’t drink when you don’t know how, idiot,” muttered one. “Damned vegetarian!” Romachkin sank onto a bench beside a young couple. A voice of thunder—his own—rang in his head: “Coward, coward, cow- ard, coward . . The couple, paying no attention to him, went on quarreling. “If you see her the woman said, “I . . .” (the next words were inaudible) “I’ve had enough. I’ve suffered too much, I . . .” (more inaudible words). “I beg you . . .” An anemic creature, hardly more than a girl—lifeless hair, a face covered with pink pimples. The fellow answered: “You make me tired, Maria. Stop it. You make me tired.” And he stared into the distance. It was all relentlessly logical. Romachkin rose as if pushed up by a spring, looked at the couple implacably, and said: “We are all cowards—do you hear me?” It was so obvious, that the tension of his despair snapped; he was able to get up, to walk as he had walked before, to reach the office without being a minute late, go back to his graphs, drink his glass of tea at four o’clock, answer questions, finish his day’s work, go home