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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.
Fatigued by the struggle, and exhausted by the disgrace of his defeat, Foma lay there in silence, tattered, soiled with something, firmly bound, hand and foot, with napkins and towels. With round, blood-shot eyes he gazed at the sky; they were dull and lustreless, as those of an idiot, and his chest heaved unevenly and with difficulty. Now came their turn to mock him. Zubov began.
"What sort of a life is now possible to you? Do you know that now no one of us would care even as much as to spit on you?" "What have I done?" Foma tried to understand. The merchants stood around him in a dense, dark mass. "Well," said Yashchurov, "now, Fomka, your work is done." "Wait, we'll see," bellowed Zubov in a low voice. "Let me free!" said Foma. "Well, no! we thank you humbly!"
There is our own, Russian stuff, and there is foreign, all at once! That's the best way! Who wishes anything? Does anybody want snails, or these crabs, eh? They're from India, I am told." And Zubov said to his neighbour, Mayakin: "The prayer 'At the Building of a Vessel' is not suitable for steam-tugs and river steamers, that is, not that it is not suitable, it isn't enough alone.
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."
They were already seated by the tables, covered with luncheon, and were hungrily admiring the huge sturgeon, almost three yards in length, nicely sprinkled over with greens and large crabs. Trofim Zubov, tying a napkin around his neck, looked at the monster fish with happy, sweetly half-shut eyes, and said to his neighbour, the flour merchant, Yona Yushkov: "Yona Nikiforich!
"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.
When they had all been brought for the night to a large house on the Zubov Rampart that was being used as a guardhouse, Pierre was placed apart under strict guard.
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.
That's a prophetic accusation. We are sinful. To tell the truth we are very " He was hissed, and Zubov even jostled him on the shoulder. He made a low bow and disappeared in the crowd. "Zubov!" cried Foma. "How many people have you fleeced and turned to beggars? Do you ever dream of Ivan Petrov Myakinnikov, who strangled himself because of you?
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