“I make you a present of three buckets of vodka.”
Brief speeches have always the most meaning and are always apt to produce a strong impression. The peasants respectfully made way for Foma, making low bows to him, and, smiling merrily and gratefully, thanked him for his generosity in a unanimous roar of approval.
“Take me over to the shore,” said Foma, feeling that the excitement that had just been aroused in him would not last long. A worm was gnawing his heart, and he was weary.
“I feel disgusted!” he said, entering the hut where Sasha, in a smart, pink gown, was bustling about the table, arranging wines and refreshments. “I feel disgusted, Aleksandra! If you could only do something with me, eh?”
She looked at him attentively and, seating herself on the bench, shoulder to shoulder with him, said:
“Since you feel disgusted—it means that you want something. What is it you want?”
“I don’t know!” replied Foma, nodding his head mournfully.
“Think of it—search.”
“I am unable to think. Nothing comes out of my thinking.”
“Eh, you, my child!” said Sasha, softly and disdainfully, moving away from him. “Your head is superfluous to you.”