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Updated: June 25, 2025
FOMA'S dual relation toward Mayakin grew stronger and stronger as time went on; listening to his words attentively and with eager curiosity, he felt that each meeting with his godfather was strengthening in him the feeling of hostility toward the old man. Sometimes Yakov Tarasovich roused in his godson a feeling akin to fear, sometimes even physical aversion.
And can you speak like that in the face of men?" "I do it at every convenient occasion. And every Sunday in the newspaper. I'll read some to you if you like." Without waiting for Foma's reply, he tore down from the wall a few sheets of paper, and still continuing to run about the room, began to read to him.
And her sister, her chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song in powerful triumphant notes: "The yearning and the pangs of love!" When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and seating herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and powerful hand. "Well, was it a nice song?" "It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.
Foma's hands began to tremble, he let go his father's head, and it struck heavily against the ground. 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.
"Come, come!" exclaimed Mayakin, mockingly lifting his eyebrows and squinting. This roused Foma's indignation. He looked full into the old man's eyes and articulated with emphasis: "And I am telling you that I don't want to hear any more of that undeserved abuse of yours. Enough!" "Mm! So-o! Pardon me."
Enough, aren't you ashamed?" But Yozhov was not ashamed; he struggled on the ground, like a fish just taken from the water, and when Foma had lifted him to his feet, he pressed close to Foma's breast, clasping his sides with his thin arms, and kept on sobbing. "Well, that's enough!" said Foma, with his teeth tightly clenched. "Enough, dear."
Huge steamers, standing by the shore and emitting columns of smoke from their funnels, were already awaiting them. The troubled water of the river, closely obstructed with vessels, was softly and plaintively splashing against the shore, as though imploring for a minute of rest and repose. "Your Honour!" a hoarse cry rang out near Foma's ears, "contribute some brandy in honour of the building!"
She cried, ran to her mother and complained to her, but Antonina loved Foma and she paid but little attention to her daughter's complaints, which strengthened the friendship between the children still more. Foma's day was long and uniform. Getting out of bed and washing himself, he used to place himself before the image, and under the whispering of the pock-marked Buzya he recited long prayers.
This self-confidence, this unshakable boastfulness aroused Foma's indignation. Thrusting his hands into his pockets in order not to strike the old man, he straightened himself in his chair and clinching his teeth, said, facing Mayakin closely: "Why are you boasting? What are you boasting of? Your own son, where is he? Your daughter, what is she? Eh, you you life-builder! Well, you are clever.
She wanted to say that Foma's desire was good, that it was a noble desire if it were earnest, but she feared to irritate her father with her words, and she only gazed at him questioningly. "What is it?" said Mayakin, excitedly, trembling. "That either comes to him from excessive drinking, or else Heaven forbid from his mother, the orthodox spirit.
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