“What then, did you think to lick away a mountain with your tongue? You armed yourself with malice enough to fight a bedbug, and you started out after a bear, is that it? Madman! If your father were to see you now. Eh!”
“And yet,” said Foma, suddenly, loudly, with assurance, and his eyes again flared up, “and yet it is all your fault! You have spoiled life! You have made everything narrow. We are suffocating because of you! And though my truth against you is weak, it is truth, nevertheless! You are godless wretches! May you all be cursed!”
He moved about in his chair, attempting to free his hands, and cried out, flashing his eyes with fury:
“Unbind my hands!”
They came closer to him; the faces of the merchants became more severe, and Reznikov said to him impressively:
“Don’t make a noise, don’t be bothersome! We’ll soon be in town. Don’t disgrace yourself, and don’t disgrace us either. We are not going to take you direct from the wharf to the insane asylum.”
“So!” exclaimed Foma. “So you are going to put me into an insane asylum?”
No one replied. He looked at their faces and hung his head.
“Behave peacefully! We’ll unbind you!” said someone.
“It’s not necessary!” said Foma in a low voice. “It’s all the same. I spit on it! Nothing will happen.”