“Of course, one gets tired if he isn’t used to work.”
“It is even hard to eat gruel if you are not used to it.”
“I am not tired,” said Foma, gloomily, and again were heard the respectful exclamations of the peasants, as they surrounded him more closely.
“Work, if one likes it, is a pleasant thing.”
“It’s just like play.”
“It’s like playing with a woman.”
But the light-haired fellow persisted in his request:
“Your Honour! You ought to treat us to a vedro of vodka, eh?” he said, smiling and sighing.
Foma looked at the bearded faces before him and felt like saying something offensive to them. But somehow everything became confused in his brain, he found no thoughts in it and, finally, without giving himself an account of his words, said angrily:
“All you want is to drink all the time! It makes no difference to you what you do! You should have thought—why? to what purpose? Eh, you!”