His head ached; he felt desolate.

Hitherto, whenever he pictured the triumph of his truth, he wanted to cry with the delight that seized his heart.

But here he had spoken his truth to the people, and behold! when clothed in words it appeared so pale, so powerless, so incapable of affecting anyone.

He blamed himself; it seemed to him that he had concealed his dream in a poor, disfiguring garment, and no one could, therefore, detect its beauty.
He went home, tired and moody.

He was followed by his mother and Sizov, while Rybin walked alongside, buzzing into his ear: "You speak well, but you don't speak to the heart! That's the trouble! The spark must be thrown into the heart, into its very depths!" "It's time we lived and were guided by reason," Pavel said in a low voice.
"The boot does not fit the foot; it's too thin and narrow! The foot won't get in! And if it does, it will wear the boot out mighty quick.
That is the trouble." Sizov, meanwhile, talked to the mother.
"It's time for us old folks to get into our graves.