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Updated: June 12, 2025
On that day they took a trip on a steamer, with an orchestra of music, drank champagne, and every one of them got terribly drunk. Sasha sang a peculiar, wonderfully sad song, and Foma, moved by her singing, wept like a child. Then he danced with her the "Russian dance," and finally, perspiring and fatigued, threw himself overboard in his clothes and was nearly drowned.
The assurance and the power of her reproaches involuntarily compelled Foma to listen attentively to her spiteful words; he felt there was common sense in them. He even came nearer to her, but she, enraged and exasperated, turned away from him and became silent.
Now, in Mayakin's presence, those who had mocked Foma were silent, looking at the old man questioningly, with curiosity and expectancy. He was calm but his eyes gleamed in a way not at all becoming to the occasion, contentedly and brightly. "Give me some vodka," begged Foma, seating himself at the table, and leaning his chest against its edge. His bent figure look piteous and helpless.
"Listen!" said the receiver, addressing him, "wire to your father asking him to allow some grain for waste! Just see how much is lost here. And here every pound is precious! You should have understood this! What a fine father you have," he concluded with a biting grimace. "How much shall I allow?" asked Foma, boldly and disdainfully.
Eh, Foma Ignatyevich!" she exclaimed, lifting her voice louder, and reiterating the rhythm of her harmonious speech, whose accents rose and fell in unison with the melodious murmuring of the water. "Listen to me preserve your youth! There is nothing in the world better than that. There is nothing more precious than youth. With youth, as with gold, you can accomplish anything you please.
Then he rose from his chair and said to Foma curtly: "Dress yourself!" And seeing how clumsily and slowly he turned on the lounge, Yozhov shouted with anger and impatience: "Well, be quicker! You personification of stupidity. You symbolical cart-shaft." "Don't curse!" said Foma, with a peaceable smile. "Is it worthwhile to be angry because a woman has cackled?"
"What sort of a life is now possible to you? Do you know that now no one of us would care even as much as to spit on you?" "What have I done?" Foma tried to understand. The merchants stood around him in a dense, dark mass. "Well," said Yashchurov, "now, Fomka, your work is done." "Wait, we'll see," bellowed Zubov in a low voice. "Let me free!" said Foma. "Well, no! we thank you humbly!"
And Foma, carried away by his own thought, argued: "They carry burdens, they toil all their life long for mere trifles. And suddenly they say something that wouldn't come into your mind in a century. Evidently they feel. Yes, it is interesting to be with them."
The sun of my life is setting. And, perhaps, of yours as well?" Ookhtishchev made a comical, sly grimace and looked into Foma's face. And Foma stood before him, feeling that his head was lowering on his breast, and that he was unable to hinder it. "Yes, the radiant Aurora." "Is Medinskaya going away?" a deep bass voice asked. "That's fine! I am glad." "May I know why?" exclaimed Ookhtishchev.
Then fate pulls up the rod and the man is struggling, flopping on the ground, and then you see his heart is broken. That's how it is, my dear man." Foma closed his eyes, as if a ray of the sun had fallen full on them, and shaking his head, he said aloud: "True! That is true!" The companions looked at him fixedly: the old man, with a fine, wise smile; the large-eyed man, unfriendly, askance.
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