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Updated: May 24, 2025
Yet she went away next day, and he never saw her again. No story is told, nothing is finished. Ah, but surely the story of Foma Gordyeeff is told; his life is finished, as lives are being finished each day around us. Besides, it is the way of life, and the art of Gorky is the art of realism. But it is a less tedious realism than that of Tolstoy or Turgenev.
"Not so loud!" said the teacher, wrinkling his yellow face and contracting his fatigued eyes. Yozhov spoke quickly and in a ringing voice: "Now we know that the first peddler made 17k. profit." "Enough! Gordyeeff! Tell me what must we do in order to find out how much the second peddler gained?"
It is to be doubted strongly if the average bourgeois, smug and fat and prosperous, can understand this man Foma Gordyeeff. The rebellion in his blood is something to which their own does not thrill.
Yozhov jumped to his feet and said boldly: "It's not I, Ivan Andreyich it's Gordyeeff." "Both of them were whispering," announced Smolin, serenely. Wrinkling his face mournfully and moving his big lip comically, the teacher reprimanded them all, but his words did not prevent Yozhov from whispering immediately: "Very well, Smolin! I'll remember you for telling."
Rising on tiptoe, with his neck outstretched, he stared somewhere toward the end of the table, and his eyes flashed strangely, as though he saw there something which was pleasing to him. "Gordyeeff," said Yona Yushkov, softly. And all heads were turned toward the direction in which Yakov Tarasovich was staring. There, with his hands resting on the table, stood Foma.
"And it all came about," said Foma, slowly, in a dull voice, "because you said that she was going away." "Who? "Sophya Pavlovna." "Yes, she is going away. Well?" He stood opposite Foma and stared at him, with a smile in his eyes. Gordyeeff was silent, with lowered head, tapping the stone of the sidewalk with his cane. "Come," said Ookhtishchev.
Among books and newspapers on the table stood a bottle of vodka and there was an odour of something salty in the room. "Why are you tramping about?" Yozhov asked Foma, and, nodding at him, said to the man on the lounge: "Gordyeeff!" The man glanced at the newcomer and said in a harsh, shrill voice: "Krasnoshchokov."
He shuddered and said confusedly: "Gordyeeff." "Ignat Gordyeeff's?" "Yes." Now the second captain was taken aback. He straightened himself, expanded his chest and for some reason or other cleared his throat impressively. Then his shoulders sank and he said to the boy in a fatherly tone: "It's a shame! The son of such a well-known and respected man! It is unbecoming your position. You may go.
Roar on, Gordyeeff! Roar at everything!" And again he clutched at Foma's shoulders, flung himself on his breast, raising to Foma's face his round, black, closely-cropped head, which was ceaselessly turning about on his shoulders on all sides, so that Foma was unable to see his face, and he was angry at him for this, and kept on pushing him aside, crying excitedly: "Get away! Where is your face?
Even science seems to help man but little," said Gordyeeff plaintively. "Drink!" said Yozhov, turning pale with fatigue, and handing him the glass. Then he wiped his forehead, seated himself on the lounge beside Foma, and said: "Leave science alone!
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