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Updated: June 25, 2025
And they all presented themselves to Foma's imagination as a huge heap of worms, who were swarming over the earth merely to eat." He becomes the living interrogation of life. He cannot begin living until he knows what living means, and he seeks its meaning vainly.
By disparaging Medinskaya, Mayakin made her more accessible to his godson, and Foma soon understood this. A few days passed, and Foma's agitated feelings became calm, absorbed by the spring business cares. The sorrow for the loss of the individual deadened the spite he owed the woman, and the thought of the woman's accessibility increased his passion for her.
The beads of his rosary were softly rustling in his hands. The pilgrim's attitude gave birth to easy courage in Foma's breast, and he said: "Tell me, Father Miron, is it good to live, having full freedom, without work, without relatives, a wanderer, like yourself?" Father Miron raised his head and softly burst into the caressing laughter of a child.
It brings much relief to the heart." But neither did these words provoke anything in Foma's head or in his heart. He came to himself, however, on the day of the funeral, thanks to the persistence of his godfather, who was assiduously and oddly trying to rouse his sad soul. The day of the funeral was cloudy and dreary.
"Yes, now he'll, ha, ha!" "He'll be his guardian, ha, ha, ha!" Their quiet laughter and whisper mingled with the groaning of the engine did not seem to reach Foma's ear. Motionlessly he stared into the distance before him with a dim look, and only his lips were slightly quivering. "His son has returned," whispered Bobrov. "I know his son," said Yashchurov. "I met him in Perm."
We must unload right away, and put a company of about twenty carpenters to work on it they'll bring it quickly into shape," said the contractor in a consoling tone. And the light-haired fellow, gaily and broadly smiling into Foma's face, asked: "Are we going to have any vodka?" "Can't you wait? You have time!" said the contractor, sternly. "Don't you see the man is tired."
The pain irritated by the words of the coupletist, caressed Foma's soul more and more passionately, and the coupletist went on thundering, intoxicated with the impurity of his accusation: "You think that you are the master of life? You are the low slave of the rouble." Someone in the crowd hiccoughed, and, evidently displeased with himself for this, cursed each time he hiccoughed: "Oh devil."
And Medinskaya's velvet-like, warm little hand glided once more over Foma's hand. The dinner was to Foma a real torture. For the first time in his life among these uniformed people, he saw that they were eating and speaking doing everything better than he, and he felt that between him and Medinskaya, who was seated just opposite him, was a high mountain, not a table.
They coursed down his cheeks into his moustache. Foma's lips quivered convulsively, and the tears fell from his moustache upon his breast. He was silent and motionless, only his chest heaved unevenly, and with difficulty. The merchants looked at his pale, tear-stained face, grown lean with suffering, with the corners of his lips lowered downward, and walked away from him quietly and mutely.
"Go away!" screamed Yozhov, hysterically, squeezing his back to the wall, under Foma's pressure. Perplexed, crushed, and infuriated he stood and waved off Foma's arms outstretched toward him. And at this time the door of the room opened, and on the threshold appeared a woman all in black. Her face was angry-looking and excited, her cheek was tied up with a kerchief.
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