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Such invasions were more to Foma's liking than all other adventures and games, and his behaviour during these invasions was marked with a boldness that at once astounded and angered his companions.
Foma's passion for the thirty-year-old woman, who lamented in his embraces her dead youth, did not tear him away from his affairs; he was never lost in the caresses, or in his affairs, bringing into both his whole self. The woman, like good wine, provoked in him alike a thirst for labour and for love, and she, too, became younger from the kisses of the youth.
As one advances through the moral waste of that strange book one slowly perceives that he is in a land of No Use, in an ambient of such iron fixity and inexorable bounds that perhaps Foma's willingness to rot through vice into imbecility is as wise as anything else there.
"Of course; that is to say, as much as is the share of a small man," said Foma's interlocutor irresolutely. "Well, and you have no right to ask of Him a single grain more! Make your own life by your own reason. And God will judge you. We are all in His service. And in His eyes we are all of equal value. Understand?"
This wild picture fastened itself firmly in Foma's mind, and growing clearer, larger and more vivid with each time it arose before him, rousing in his breast something chaotic, one great indefinite feeling into which fell, like streams into a river, fear and revolt and compassion and wrath and many another thing.
Foma's face looked drawn; he grew pale, and there was a great deal of painful, bitter stupor in his half-open lips and in his sad look. On the right and on the left of the road a field stretched itself, covered here and there with patches of winter-raiment. Rooks were hopping busily about over the black spots, where the snow had melted.
Tell me the truth haven't you been pleased with me?" she asked with a smile, but her big, hot tears were still trickling down on Foma's breast. "Why should you speak like this?" exclaimed the youth, almost frightened, and hotly began to mumble to her some words about her beauty, about her kindness, telling her how sorry he was for her and how bashful in her presence.
The loud and cheerful noise of toil, the youthful beauty of nature, gaily illumined by the sunbeams all was full of a kind-hearted, somewhat crude, sound power, which pleasantly stirred Foma's soul, awakening in him new and perplexed sensations and desires.
"If you had as much brains as Marfa Poosadnitza, for instance. Eh, Lubov? Then I'd laugh at everybody, and at Foma. Come now, don't cry!" She wiped her eyes and asked: "What about Foma?" "He's rebellious. Ha! ha! he says: 'Take away my property, give me freedom! He wants to save his soul in the kabak. That's what entered Foma's head." "Well, what is this?" asked Lubov, irresolutely.
Sasha stood behind him calmly examining over his shoulder the little old man, whose head hardly reached Foma's chin. Attracted by Foma's loud words, the public looked at them, scenting a scandal. And Mayakin, too, perceived immediately the possibility of a scandal and instantly estimated correctly the quarrelsome mood of his godson.
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