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Updated: May 31, 2025
You never talk about anything." "What shall I talk about, since I know nothing!" said Foma, plainly. "Study read books." "I don't feel like doing it." "You see, the Gymnasium students know everything, and know how to talk about everything. Take Yozhov, for instance." "I know Yozhov a chatterbox." "You simply envy him. He is very clever yes.
"Crush on!" roared Foma, jumping up from the lounge and grasping Yozhov by the shoulders. With flashing eyes he gazed into Yozhov's face, bending toward him, and almost moaned with grief and affliction: "Oh! Nikolay! My dear fellow, I am mortally sorry for you! I am more sorry than words can tell!" "What's this?
He perceived something strange about Yozhov; the little feuilleton-writer seemed to imitate the tone and the speech of the compositors. He bustled about with them at the woodpile, uncorked bottles of beer, cursed, laughed loudly and tried his best to resemble them. He was even dressed more simply than usual. "Eh, brethren!" he exclaimed, with enthusiasm. "I feel well with you!
Tell me who are they? No one knows! That Yozhov what is he? Only God knows. All they want is the truth, you say? What modest people they are! And suppose truth is the very dearest thing there is? Perhaps everybody is seeking it in silence? Believe me man cannot be unselfish. Man will not fight for what belongs not to him, and if he does fight his name is 'fool, and he is of no use to anybody.
That's why I live in fetters. I could free myself from everything with a single effort: just to move my body with all my strength, and then all the fetters will burst!" "And what then?" asked Yozhov. "Then?" Foma became pensive, and, after a moment's thought, waved his hand. "I don't know what will be then. I shall see!" "We shall see!" assented Yozhov.
Christ be with you!" says the old woman, interrupting her tale of men suffering for their sins. But in the morning after such a night Foma rose sound and cheerful, washed himself hastily, drank his tea in haste and ran off to school, provided with sweet cakes, which were awaited by the always hungry little Yozhov, who greedily subsisted on his rich friend's generosity.
"The devil take the district inspectors!" said Foma, with a wave of the hand. "Tell me about yourself." "About myself! I am here entire!" exclaimed Yozhov, stopping short in the middle of the room, and striking his chest with his hands. "I have already accomplished all I could accomplish. I have attained the rank of the public's entertainer and that is all I can do!
There were twelve compositors there, neatly dressed; they treated Yozhov simply, as a comrade, and this somewhat surprised and embarrassed Foma, in whose eyes Yozhov was after all something of a master or superior to them, while they were really only his servants.
I am in a fine frame of mind to-day and I will not moan with you. All the more so considering you don't moan, but grunt." Foma went away, leaving Yozhov singing at the top of his voice: "Beat the drum and fear not." "Drum? You are a drum yourself;" thought Foma, with irritation, as he slowly came out on the street. At the Mayakins he was met by Luba.
Foma felt that something warm trickled down on his hand, and he looked up at the wrinkled face of Yozhov, who went on speaking, trembling in every limb: "I am not the only one. There are many like myself, intimidated by fate, broken and suffering.
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