ture. I am not drunk, I have
drunk nothing, but I have heard everything. Gentlemen merchants! Permit
me to make a speech! My godfather, whom you respect so much, has spoken.
Now listen to his godson."

"What--speeches?" said Reznikov. "Why have any discourses? We have come
together to enjoy ourselves."

"Come, you had better drop that, Foma Ignatyevich."

"Better drink something."

"Let's have a drink! Ah, Foma, you're the son of a fine father!"

Foma recoiled from the table, straightened himself and continuously
smiling, listened to the kind, admonitory words. Among all those sedate
people he was the youngest and the handsomest. His well-shaped figure,
in a tight-fitting frock coat, stood out, to his advantage, among the
mass of stout bodies with prominent paunches. His swarthy face with
large eyes was more regularly featured, more full of life than the
shrivelled or red faces of those who stood before him with astonishment
and expectancy. He threw his chest forward, set his teeth together, and
flinging the skirts of his frock coat apart, thrust his hands into his
pockets.

"You can't stop up my mouth now with flattery and caresses!" said he,
firmly and threateningly, "Whether you will listen or not, I am going to
speak all the same. You cannot drive me away from here."

He shook his head, and, raising his shoulders, announced calmly:

"But if any one of you dare to touch me, even with a finger, I'll kill
him! I swear it by the Lord. I'll kill as many as I can!"

The crowd of people that stood opposite him swayed back, even as bushes
rocked by the wind. They began to talk in agitated whispers. Foma's face
grew darker, his eyes became round.

"Well, it has been said here that you have built up life, and that you
have done the most genuine and proper things."

Foma heaved a deep sigh, and with inexpressible aversion scrutinized his
listeners' faces, which suddenly became strangely puffed up, as though
they were swollen. The merchants were silent, pressing closer and closer
to one another. Some one in the back rows muttered:

"What is he talking about? Ah! From a paper, or by heart?"

"Oh, you rascals!" exclaimed Gordyeeff, shaking his head. "What have you
made? It is not life that you have made, but a prison. It is not
order that you have established, you have forged fetters on man. It is
suffocating, it is narrow, there is no room for a living soul to turn.
Man is perishing! You are murderers! Do you unde