"Well, then …" I repeated once more, and once more relapsed into helpless silence.
"Ah, how kind you are!" he said in a low voice, and looked at me for some time with a grateful expression. "And how beautiful besides!" he added unexpectedly.
I felt startled: mere instinct on my part, for I had no reason to fear. He glanced away from me, and turned his attention to some orchids that stood close to him, stroking them with his bony hand.
"When I ask myself now for what reason I did what I did, I can find no answer to my question. Such flowers as these; I have gone through life, always trampling upon them; why? Why should Obojanski cut them to pieces, that he may, in them and from them, hit upon some new abstraction or other—their genus, their species, their variety? Why do you call them flowers of farewell? Oh, now that I know how terrible the way of self-denial and virtue is, I should this day like to lie on a bed of flowers such as these."
"I can answer to your question: You trampled the flowers, because you were a strong man."
