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Updated: June 7, 2025
"Such a robust and healthy young man. Ho, ho!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev, and in the tone of a teacher began to argue with Foma that it was essential for him to give his passion an outlet in a good spree, in the company of women. "This will be magnificent, and it is indispensable to you. You may believe me. And as to conscience, you must excuse me. You don't define it quite properly.
I consider her good, therefore she is good." There was great emotion in Foma's voice. Ookhtishchev looked at him and said thoughtfully: "You are a queer man, I must confess." "I am a simple man a savage. I have given him a thrashing and now I feel jolly, and as to the result, let come what will. "I am afraid that it will result in something bad.
Ookhtishchev listened to the painful, unconnected words that burst from his companion's lips. He saw how the muscles of his face contracted with the effort to express his thoughts, and he felt that behind this bombast there was a great, serious grief.
Eh?" he heard Ookhtishchev's jestingly-stern voice. The peasant, at whom Ookhtishchev shouted, drew the cap from his head, clapped it against his knee and answered, with a smile: "I came over to listen to the lady's song." "Well, does she sing well?" "What a question! Of course," said the peasant, looking at Sasha, with admiration in his eyes. "That's right!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev.
"It isn't for everyone to philosophize," said Ookhtishchev, swinging his cane in the air, and somewhat carried away by his wisdom. "For if everybody were to philosophize, who would live? And we live but once! And therefore it were best to make haste to live. By God! That's true! But what's the use of talking? Would you permit me to give you a shaking up?
"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.
"Excuse me, Ivan Nikolayevich," cried Ookhtishchev, agitated. "I must agree with you, the Russian song is monotonous and gloomy. It has not, you know, that brilliancy of culture," said the man with the side whiskers wearily, as he sipped some wine out of his glass. "But nevertheless, there is always a warm heart in it," put in the red-haired lady, as she peeled an orange. The sun was setting.
Foma started, saying indifferently: "Well, let her go. And I am alone." Ookhtishchev, waving his cane, began to whistle, looking at his companion. "Sha'n't I be able to get along without her?" asked Foma, looking somewhere in front of him and then, after a pause, he answered himself softly and irresolutely: "Of course, I shall." "Listen to me!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev.
Beside him sat the secretary of the society of which Foma had been made an honorary member; he was a young court officer, bearing the odd name of Ookhtishchev. As if to make his name appear more absurd than it really was, he spoke in a loud, ringing tenor, and altogether plump, short, round-faced and a lively talker he looked like a brand new bell.
He was pale some spark seemed to flash up in his eyes now and then, and an indefinite, indolent smile played about his lips. "Let us sing in chorus!" suggested the man with the side whiskers. "No, let these two sing!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev with enthusiasm. "Vera, sing that song! You know, 'I will go at dawn. How is it? Sing, Pavlinka!"
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