d on; without us, you are without light!
Comrades! we were created by Fate itself to complete one another!"

"What does he beg of them?" thought Foma, listening to Yozhov's words
with perplexity. And examining the faces of the compositors he saw that
they also looked at the orator inquiringly, perplexedly, wearily.

"The future is yours, my friends!" said Yozhov, faintly, shaking his
head mournfully as though feeling sorry for the future, and yielding
to these people against his will the predominance over it. "The future
belongs to the men of honest toil. You have a great task before you! You
have to create a new culture, everything free, vital and bright! I, who
am one of you in flesh and in spirit; who am the son of a soldier; I
propose a toast to your future! Hurrah!"

Yozhov emptied his glass and sank heavily to the ground. The compositors
unanimously took up his broken exclamation, and a powerful, thundering
shout rolled through the air, causing the leaves on the trees to
tremble.

"Let's start a song now," proposed the stout fellow again.

"Come on!" chimed in two or three voices. A noisy dispute ensued as to
what to sing. Yozhov listened to the noise, and, turning his head from
one side to another, scrutinized them all.

"Brethren," Yozhov suddenly cried again, "answer me. Say a few words in
reply to my address of welcome."

Again--though not at once--all became silent, some looking at him with
curiosity, others concealing a grin, still others with an expression of
dissatisfaction plainly written on their faces. And he again rose from
the ground and said, hotly:

"Two of us here are cast away by life--I and that other one. We both
desire the same regard for man and the happiness of feeling ourselves
useful unto others. Comrades! And that big, stupid man--"

"Nikolay Matveyich, you had better not insult our guest!" said someone
in a deep, displeased voice.

"Yes, that's unnecessary," affirmed the stout fellow, who had invited
Foma to the fireside. "Why use offensive language?"

A third voice rang out loudly and distinctly:

"We have come together to enjoy ourselves--to take a rest."

"Fools!" laughed Yozhov, faintly. "Kind-hearted fools! Do you pity him?
But do you know who he is? He is of those people who suck your blood."

"That will do, Nikolay Matveyich!" they cried to Yozhov. And all began
to talk, paying no further attention to him. Foma felt so sorry for his
friend that he did not even take