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But one day, in Astrakhan, while the steamer was taking in a cargo of fuel, Foma heard the voice of Petrovich, the machinist: "He ordered such a lot of wood to be taken in. What an absurd man! First he loads the steamer up to the very deck, and then he roars. 'You break the machinery too often, he says. 'You pour oil, he says, 'at random."
When I was of your age I had an easy life, while you are only taking aim. But then, good fruit does not ripen early." The old man's monotonous speeches soon accomplished what they were intended to do. Foma listened to them and made clear to himself the aim of life. He must be better than others, he resolved, and the ambition, kindled by the old man, took deep root in his heart.
It is that one that you must be able to find in order to understand the sense of the thing. Take for example the lodging-asylums, the work-houses, the poor-houses and other similar institutions. Just consider, what are they for?" "What is there to consider here?" said Foma, wearily "Everybody knows what they are for for the poor and feeble." "Eh, dear!
"I love to speak to you," she said, musically drawling her words. "I've grown tired of all the rest of them. They're all so boring, ordinary and worn-out, while you are fresh, sincere. You don't like those people either, do you?" "I can't bear them!" replied Foma, firmly. "And me?" she asked softly. Foma turned his eyes away from her and said, with a sigh: "How many times have you asked me that?"
Foma became disgusted as he looked at them, and he went off to the other raft. He was astonished that all these people behaved as though they had not heard the song at all. In his breast the song was alive and there it called to life a restless desire to do something, to say something. But he had no one there to speak to. The sun had set and the distance was enveloped in blue mist.
He roared, squeaked, laughed, showed his teeth and looked like an angry dog trying to break the chain in powerless rage. Not grasping the ideals in his friend's creations, Foma felt their daring audacity, their biting sarcasm, their passionate malice, and he was as well pleased with them as though he had been scourged with besoms in a hot bath.
"It's a pity!" said Foma, with tears in his voice. "Yes. So that's the kind of a fellow you are," said Ignat. Then, after a moment's silence, he filled a wineglass with vodka, emptied it, and said sternly, in a slightly reprimanding tone: "There is no reason why you should pity him. He brawled at random, and therefore got what he deserved.
And he shouted down: "Eh, boys! The master is giving away two hundred puds." "Three hundred!" interposed Foma. "Three hundred puds. Oh! Thank you! Three hundred puds of grain, boys!" But their response was weak. The peasants lifted up their heads and mutely lowered them again, resuming their work. A few voices said irresolutely and as though unwillingly: "Thanks. May God give you.
And now we have arranged to lock up these beggars in separate houses that they should not walk around on the streets and should not rouse our conscience. "Cle-ver!" whispered Foma, amazed, staring fixedly at his godfather. "Aha!" exclaimed Mayakin, his eyes beaming with triumph. "How is it that my father did not think of this?" asked Foma, uneasily. "Just wait! Listen further, it is still worse.
The sound of the bell on the steeple, with one mighty swing, brings all the water in agitation and it is slightly trembling from that sound; a big spot of light is also trembling, spreading light upon the water, radiating from its centre into the dark distance, there growing paler and dying out. Again there is weary and deathlike repose in this dark desert. "Auntie," whispers Foma, beseechingly.
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