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Updated: May 31, 2025
But now the pigeons come down on the roof again, and, tired out by their flight, are easily driven into the pigeon-house. "Friends, let's go for apples?" suggests Yozhov, the instigator of all games and adventures.
Were they not written by men?" "Those were apostles. Now there are none." "Good, your refutation is sound! It is true, dear, there are no apostles. Only the Judases remained, and miserable ones at that." Foma felt very well, for he saw that Yozhov was attentively listening to his words and seemed to be weighing each and every word he uttered.
Yozhov drank his tea at one draught, thrust the glass on the saucer, placed his feet on the edge of the chair, and clasping his knees in his hands, rested his chin upon them.
Yozhov jumped to his feet, and, stopping in front of Foma, began to speak in a loud voice, as though declaiming: "I would gather together the remains of my wounded soul, and together with the blood of my heart I would spit them into the face of our intelligent society, the devil take it! I would say to them: 'You insects, you are the best sap of my country!
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."
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?"
Death is within my heart. The corpses of my dreams are rotting there. Oh! oh!" Yozhov burst into tears, sobbing like a woman. Foma pitied him, and felt uncomfortable with him. He jerked at his shoulder impatiently, and said: "Stop crying! Come, how weak you are, brother!"
I might drink with him," thought Foma and went away to Yozhov, not having the slightest desire either to see the feuilleton-writer or to drink with him. At Yozhov's he found a shaggy fellow sitting on the lounge. He had on a blouse and gray pantaloons.
While Yozhov rose to his feet, and, clutching at the sleeves of his overcoat, muttered: "Come, the devil take them!" "Till we meet again, gentlemen! I'm going!" said Foma and departed amid exclamations of polite regret. "Ha, ha, ha!" Yozhov burst out laughing when he had got about twenty steps away from the fire. "They see us off with sorrow, but they are glad that I am going away.
It's even very it is interesting. Peasants, labourers, to look at them plainly, they are just like horses. They carry burdens, they puff and blow." "They carry our life on their backs," exclaimed Yozhov with irritation. "They carry it like horses, submissively, stupidly. And this submissiveness of theirs is our misfortune, our curse!"
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