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Updated: May 16, 2025
They bustled about, waving their arms, talking to one another some red with anger, others pale, yet all equally powerless to check the flow of his jeers at them. "Send the sailors over here!" cried Reznikov, tugging Kononov by the shoulder. "What's the matter with you, Ilya? Ah? Have you invited us to be ridiculed?" "Against one puppy," screamed Zubov.
But saying this, Foma understood that he could no longer do anything, nor say anything. And that not because they had bound him, but because something had burned out within him, and his soul had become dark and empty. Zubov was soon joined by Reznikov. Then one after another the others began to draw near.
The massive "Ilya Murometz," heaving a mighty sigh, emitted a thick column of white steam toward the side of the landing-bridge, and started upstream easily, like a swan. "How it started off," enthusiastically exclaimed commercial counsellor Lup Grigoryev Reznikov, a tall, thin, good-looking man. "Without a quiver! Like a lady in the dance!" "Half speed!"
At the sight of his wolf-like, angry face and his wrathful pose, the merchants again became silent for a moment. "What are you gaping at?" asked Foma, and again accompanied his question with a violent oath. "He's drunk!" said Bobrov, with a shake of the head. "And why was he invited?" whispered Reznikov, softly. "Foma Ignatyevich!" said Kononov, sedately, "you mustn't create any scandals.
"Godfather!" said Foma, showing his teeth, "I have not done anything as yet, so it is rather early to read me a lecture. I am not drunk, I have drunk nothing, but I have heard everything. Gentlemen merchants! Permit me to make a speech! My godfather, whom you respect so much, has spoken. Now listen to his godson." "What speeches?" said Reznikov. "Why have any discourses?
Mayakin rose from his seat and went to the cabin, saying softly: "Keep an eye on him, he might fling himself overboard." "I am sorry for the fellow," said Bobrov, looking at Yakov Tarasovich as he departed. "No one is to blame for his madness," replied Reznikov, morosely. "And Yakov," whispered Zubov, nodding his head in the direction of Mayakin. "What about Yakov? He loses nothing through it."
Exclamations of protest were heard, but these were brief, not loud, and each time Foma shouted some one's name, all became silent, listening, casting furtive, malicious glances in the direction of their accused comrade. Bobrov laughed perplexedly, but his small eyes bored into Foma as gimlets. And Lup Reznikov, waving his hands, hopped about awkwardly and, short of breath, said: "Be my witnesses.
They were all crowded on the bow of the steamer, and little by little, yielding to Kononov's requests, moved towards the stern covered with sailcloth, where stood tables spread with lunch. Lup Reznikov walked arm in arm with Yakov Mayakin, and, bending over to his ear, whispered something to him, while the latter listened and smiled.
But Foma saw them as though through a fog, and their words did not touch him to the quick. A vast, bitter feeling was now springing up within him, from the depth of his soul; he followed its growth and though he did not yet understand it, he already experienced something melancholy and degrading. "Just think, you charlatan! What have you done to yourself?" said Reznikov.
"I have drank only two glasses. I was perfectly sober." "Consequently," said Bobrov, "you are right, Yakov Tarasovich, he is insane." "I?" exclaimed Foma. But they paid no attention to him. Reznikov, Zubov and Bobrov leaned over to Mayakin and began to talk in low tones. "Guardianship!" Foma's ears caught this one word.
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