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Updated: September 10, 2025
"It's not a ship, it's a Leviathan!" remarked with a devout sigh the pock-marked and stooping Trofim Zubov, cathedral-warden and principal usurer in town. It was a gray day. The sky, overcast with autumn clouds, was reflected in the water of the river, thus giving it a cold leaden colouring.
You are murderers! Do you understand that you exist today only through the patience of mankind?" "What does this mean?" exclaimed Reznikov, clasping his hands in rage and indignation. "Ilya Yefimov, what's this? I can't bear to hear such words." "Gordyeeff!" cried Bobrov. "Look out, you speak improper words." "For such words you'll get oi, oi, oi!" said Zubov, insinuatingly.
And he saw before him a plump, rather sallow-faced, short, stout woman, the Empress Mother, with her smile and her words at her first gracious reception of him, and then that same face on the catafalque, and the encounter he had with Zubov over her coffin about his right to kiss her hand. "Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done with all the present!
Is it true that you steal at every mass ten roubles out of the church box?" Zubov had not expected the attack, and he remained as petrified, with his hand uplifted. But he immediately began to scream in a shrill voice, as he jumped up quickly: "Ah! You turn against me also? Against me, too?"
The shrill, jarring shout of Mayakin called forth a deafening, triumphant roar from the merchants. All these big, fleshy bodies, aroused by wine and by the old man's words, stirred and uttered from their chests such a unanimous, massive shout that everything around them seemed to tremble and to quake. "Yakov! you are the trumpet of the Lord!" cried Zubov, holding out his goblet toward Mayakin.
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